Born of Ill Intent
by skag trendy
Summary: Dean desperately searches for his kidnapped brother, only to discover that the fallout from Sam's captivity has alarming consequences. Sort of a sequel to Ice Cold in LA. Hurt Sam. Protective Dean. Fatherly Bobby. Warnings: Rape, drugging, bad language. MPREG - NOT Wincest.
1. Chapter 1

**Born of Ill Intent.**

**Dean desperately searches for his kidnapped brother, only to discover that the fallout from Sam's captivity has alarming consequences.**

**Hurt Sam. Protective Dean. Fatherly Bobby.**

**Set early season two.**

**Return of a previous OC.**

**Would help to read Ice Cold in LA, but not essential as the story is summarised in this one at some point.**

**WARNINGS: **

**Dark, **_**dark**_** themes with some dark humour to match; **

**drugging, rape, kidnap, bad language**

**MPREG – NOT Wincest!**

**Medical facts are a myth, so please don't have a go, yeah? You'll only serve to piss me off and we don't want that now, do we?**

**Weird plot alert! **

**Rather Terry Prachett in places, so if you don't like the Discworld books then I really wouldn't recommend this story.**

* * *

**Chapter One.**

"_Shifter, huh?" _Bobby's voice sounded hollow on the line, but there was no masking his concern. _"Give you any trouble?"_

"Nothing we couldn't handle. All taken care of, dude," said Dean, casually kicking up dust with his feet.

"_Uhuh," _said Bobby, somewhat dryly._ "And how's Sam?"_

Dean sighed and slumped against the Impala, a small, bitter smile twisting his mouth. "Same as always… bitchy, moody. Nothin' changes."

"_Look, Dean", _Bobby's tone changed from fond exasperation to fatherly concern. _"I know the last few months have been tough, with your Daddy gone and all, but you boys need each other, need to talk..."_

Dean snorted. "Kid does nothing _but_ damn well talk! It's all I can do to get away from the guy before he starts crying into his latte!"

There was an angry silence at the other end of the line before Bobby growled:

"_You know good and well what I meant, boy! Sam's worried about you!"_

There was a brief pause until Dean sighed again, this time in defeat.

"Look, I'll talk to him, ok? I'll drag him to a bar, shoot some pool, sink a few beers, and we'll talk." He heard it all in Bobby's knowing silence, and rolled his eyes. "I _promise_."

"_You'd better, or I'll threaten you same way I once threatened your Daddy."_

"Kinky bastard," Dean shot back, but smiled sadly.

It was merely a faded memory now, but he vaguely recalled a disagreement between the two hunters which lead to Bobby brandishing a shotgun at John, and to this day Dean believed the guy would indeed have filled his dad's ass with buckshot.

"Never knew your bread was buttered that side, dude," he added with a soft laugh.

He just about heard Bobby's grumbled _"Idgit" _before he snapped his cell phone shut.

* * *

"Busy tonight, huh?"

Sam looked to his right and nodded politely. "Yeah."

"So, you here alone?"

Putting his drink down on the sticky bar, Sam turned to properly study the girl.

She was attractive enough, blond, early twenties, came up to Sam's chest. But he'd seen her flirting with his older brother earlier, and they'd both disappeared out back for a half hour or so. When Dean returned he'd seemed uncomfortable and even gave Sam a warning tilt of the head.

_Don't go there. Girl's a fruitloop._

In any case, Sam didn't play that kind of game.

One night stands had never been his thing, anyhow, but his brother's cast offs? No thanks. Sam gave up hand-me-downs a long time ago, once his shadow stretched taller than Dean's.

He turned his head away and began scanning the room for his older brother. Resisting the urge to chew nervously on his bottom lip, Sam tried to draw in long, even breaths. He felt distinctly on edge tonight. There was something in the air, a nervous tension that only he seemed to pick up on, while everyone else carried on in their own sweet drunken way. For Sam, keeping Dean in sight, making sure his sibling was safe and sound, was his number one priority.

An ominous tingling started at the base of his spine, playing his nerve endings like an Irish fiddle but, no matter how hard he tried, Sam couldn't for the life of him figure out what was wrong.

The shifter was dead.

Three silver bullets to the heart, followed by a salt and burn for good measure.

They didn't come much deader than that.

Sam's left leg jiggled up and down, regardless of his own inner reassurances.

"No, I'm not here alone," Sam finally replied, after spotting Dean by the pool tables.

His brother was grinning from ear to ear, smug over his winnings no doubt, and Sam felt a part of himself, deep down inside, relax a little.

It was good to see his brother smile again. Since their father died, Dean's smiles were few and far between. He'd snapped at Sam more than once, threw a punch or two, and even taken his grief out on the Impala.

But perhaps the load was beginning to lighten for Dean. Over the last few days, he'd cracked a few jokes from time to time, teased Sam over his hair and choice of coffee, and his appetite was improving; instead of surviving on caffeine during the day, and alcohol at night, he was back to greasy chilli cheese fries and bacon double cheese burgers with extra onions – Sam grimaced, as though the smell was still with him and perhaps it was, trapped in his nostril hairs for ever more, never to leave.

_Ugh._

As for the brothers' relationship, well, they weren't up to their usual standard, and things were still a little strained between them, but Sam was secretly pleased when Dean had pulled up next to the bar that evening and suggested Sam might like to join him...

_Ya know, if you're not too busy washing your hair, painting your nails..._

Sam sighed in happy relief and knocked back the rest of his bourbon.

It reminded him of the weeks following Jess's death, when Dean was trying to help him deal with his loss. Having his brother teasing and ribbing him again, after everything that'd happened over the last few months, had never felt so good, so _normal._

Grimacing at the sudden acrid, bitter taste in his mouth, Sam stared down into his glass. Barely noticeable, a small patch of white sediment, partially dissolved by bourbon, clung to the base, and Sam knew what the bitch had done to him.

It was his own fault, he reflected bitterly, as the room began to spin. He should have known better.

Like his dad once told him: One slip, one tiny moment of inattention, and that's how hunters get caught.

His stomach began churning alarmingly, his vision blurring in and out. Dean was still on the other side of the room, playing pool, his back to the bar. Sam tried to call out but his tongue refused to function much beyond a slurred grunt, and a surprisingly strong grip on his arm stopped him from stumbling away.

The blond leaned over and blew gently in his ear.

"Don't go, sweetheart," she whispered to him. "We could have so much fun together."

Sam stared blearily at her hand on his arm, and his mind shut down.

* * *

It wasn't the best of awakenings: spread-eagle and naked on some grimy bed with questionable sheets, wrists and ankles in chains and a thick cloth stuffed in his mouth.

Worst news of all was that the creature riding him like an oil donkey strongly resembled a miniature wendigo, and Sam's body was responding in spite of himself.

_Nonononono!_

Once it realised he was awake, it grinned down at him, mouth a grotesque twisted slash across its face, and sped up.

_It's just a dream. It's _gotta _be a dream!_

Sam whimpered into the gag and bit down hard, trying to control himself, but whatever he'd been drugged with was ruling the roost right then. The bed springs creaked in time as the creature grunted with pleasure, and raked its sharp claws down Sam's chest, leaving bloody scratches deep in his flesh. He screamed out his pain into the foul tasting cloth, apparently exciting the creature all the more.

A few more tight, hot squeezes and, to his absolute shame, Sam was coming.

Panting through his nose, Sam blinked up at his rapist, angry and bewildered until its eyes flashed silver, and his anger turned to deep seated fear.

_Shifter, _his sluggish mind informed him.

His self-disgust deepened when the shifter, still impaled on Sam, began peeling off its ugly, scarred flesh and tossing it on the floor. Sick, slippery noises filled the room and Sam fought hard against the dangerous urge to vomit as the blond from the bar gradually re-emerged.

"Hi honey!" she cooed, smoothing her slimy wet hands over Sam's naked chest. "Did you enjoy that? Wanna go again?"

Sam shook his head, frantically. "Mmmph!"

"Sure?" she pouted, eyebrows drawn into a frown. "Oh well. Maybe if your brother brings me that journal, I'll leave you alone."

Sam's eyes widened. "Mmmph?"

The blond grinned, revealing perfect white teeth.

"Why, your daddy's journal, of course." She shook back her long hair, still slimy from the shift. "Shit like that's worth thousands on the black market, ya know. All kinds of valuable information in a hunter's journal… like how to take out a shifter, for example?" she added coyly, batting her eyelashes.

Now Sam understood.

Terrific. He was being held hostage over a hunter's journal.

But it still didn't make too much sense to him. That kind of information was available anywhere on the internet, if you knew where to look.

"Not just any hunter, baby," said the shifter, obviously reading his mind. "_John Winchester._ You wouldn't believe how many of my kin out there are desperate to get their hands on _that_. It's a piece of history."

She… _it?_ dismounted, paced across the room and disappeared into the bathroom. The shower was started up and the creature began merrily humming an old Beatles track. Sam vaguely recognised 'I'm looking through you' and figured it was eerily appropriate. The shower suddenly cut out and 'she' re-emerged minutes later, freshly showered and clear of shifter gunge, and began pulling on a pair of jeans and a blouse.

"Don't worry, Sammy," she told him, sweetly. She finished buttoning her blouse and pulled open the door to the room, letting a shaft of daylight in. "I'm sure your brother will come for you."

"Mmmph." Sam shook his head weakly in despair.

The shifter waggled the fingers of one hand at him while showing him the digital camera in the other. "Kinda like you just did for me."

She turned off the light, and closed the door quietly behind her, leaving Sam all alone in the dark.

* * *

Dean woke up in the early hours with a head like a burst balloon, blindly stumbled into the bathroom, and threw up a time or two.

Sam had somehow managed to sleep through all that, but the kid had also slept through Dean's clumsy homecoming from the bar just after midnight.

To be fair, Dean _had_ tried to be quiet for once, and even pulled the main door shut without slamming it.

Unfortunately, he'd dropped a heavy boot on the floor while getting ready for bed. It had fallen with a loud _thud _and Dean had frozen, eyes carefully watching the bed on the far side of the room. Through the gloom, he could just make out a bunched up lump of blankets, and held his breath, waiting.

No movement. He hadn't awakened the beast this time, unlike the last few nights where Dean's noisy night time preparations had resulted in some minor brotherly squabbles.

Fortunately, it was still dark outside; the morning chorus had yet to add to his misery.

The Lake House motel room's bathroom facilities were fairly basic, but clean. At least, they were until Dean threw up over them, virtually pebble-dashing the basin, the tiled wall behind it, and the laminate floor beneath.

He stared at the mess through half-open, bleary eyes.

No way was he in a fit state to be clearing that up, and in any case he'd only wake up Sam, no doubt giving the little bitch something else to complain about. It would have to wait 'til morning.

Carefully pushing the bathroom door shut to keep in the rancid smell of vomit, he trudged back to bed through the dark of the room, relying on his awesome Jedi powers to guide him. Collapsing face down on the comforter, Dean smacked his lips, sighed heavily, and soon fell back into an uneasy sleep.

The second time he awoke, he was alone in the room, daylight seeping in through the lime green curtains, and the unmade bed next to his was empty, its sheets and blankets all bunched up and lumpy. It was easy to assume Sam had gone for coffee and breakfast.

Hope he brings extra strength, thought Dean with a grimace. And doughnuts...

Maybe not, he quickly amended when his stomach took exception, and lurched up and down like it was free riding a bungee rope.

_Jesus. Exactly how much did I have to drink last night?_

Knowing Dean's luck, Sam would order the greasiest food imaginable, an apt punishment for Dean's drinking binge the night before.

No doubt the smug little bastard would deliver the _I told you so _line with great pleasure, paragon of virtue that he was, all the while chomping on granola, natural yoghurt and a fruit cup.

Dean hadn't seen his brother leave the bar – it had become too crowded and smoky to see across the room clearly - but it must have been early because by the time Dean noticed he was gone it was only around nine O'clock, a mere half hour since they'd arrived.

Little Miss Goody Two Shoes had ducked out on his big brother for the rest of the night. Probably as sober as a judge, knowing Sam.

Dry swallowing a couple of Tylenol, and trying to remember what in hell's name he'd been drinking the night before, Dean sat down at the scratched up table by the window, and checked the laptop.

When he found the email with a video attachment entitled _Little Brothers, _alarm bells started ringing.

Dean wasn't sure what he was watching at first, it was so blurry, but after a while he made out the bound and naked form of his little brother, lying on some grungy looking bed in a dark, grungy room.

"What the hell?" he whispered, and leaned closer to the screen.

The kid was unconscious, or asleep, maybe, but he was suddenly blocked from Dean's view when a familiar looking blonde moved into shot.

His eyebrows virtually disappeared through his hairline when he recognised her. It was the girl from the bar.

"Sammy, you didn't…"

Oh hell.

She'd come on strong and heavy, batting her eyelids at him, pushing her ample breasts in Dean's face. Feeling unusually drunk and way too horny, he'd seized the day and gone outside for a little back alley fun. But his heart hadn't been in it and, after a few minutes of some clumsy fumbling, he'd refused her offer of a nightcap, or a romp in the sack. There'd been something a little creepy about her – _too_ eager, maybe – but nothing he could put his drunken finger on. She'd whined and pouted, and clung to his arm like the most stubborn kind of dangleberry. Clingy girls were never a turn on, so he'd shrugged her off with disgust and strolled back into the bar, sending his brother a warning glance.

Last thing either of them needed was a one night stand with some psycho stalker. The Winchesters had enough to deal with as it was.

But somehow she'd nabbed herself a Sammy.

"You crazy fucking bitch," he breathed as he carried on watching, studying the room on screen and trying to gather clues to Sam's whereabouts.

Sam clearly wasn't there by his own free will and it left a nasty taste in Dean's mouth. He growled angrily as the blond smiled into the camera.

"Hi Dean!" she giggled and briefly glanced over her shoulder. "As you can see, Sammy was even less enthused with me than you were." She shrugged, nonchalantly. "Don't know why the drugs didn't work so well on you, but Sam sure went out like a light." The crazy bitch giggled. "Don't worry; all you have to do is bring a special little gift, and I'll let you have him back in one piece."

The grin suddenly dropped from her face, and she became deadly serious, her mood changing faster than a traffic signal on Speed.

"Plain and simple. I want your daddy's journal, Dean, or you don't get to see your brother again."

The grin came back in a flash; all sickly sweet like butter wouldn't just melt, but boil and stick to the bottom of the pan. Her once attractive features were now twisted and ugly, and Dean wondered what the hell he'd seen in her to begin with.

"You decide, honey. I'll give you plenty of time to think about it so just keep checking your email for further instructions. But no replies, understand? I'm not in the mood for threats or arguments. You ain't the one calling the shots, here, so reply to the emails and poor little Sammy will suffer for it."

Silver eyes suddenly flashed on screen, and her skin began to bubble and twist. "Ewww gross!" Dean stood so abruptly his chair fell backwards to the floor with a loud thump.

He watched, heart in his mouth as the shifter became a damn _wendigo_, and then…

"No. No, you can't…" he stared in helpless horror as the monster climbed on the bed, swung one leg over the kid's slim hips, settled itself, and began stroking Sam's hair.

Dean's jaw clenched, angrily.

Sam had clearly been double-drugged and molested in his sleep because his cock was standing tall and proud despite his unconsciousness.

Dean nearly threw up again when the wendigo-shifter snarled suddenly and _mounted_ his little brother.

Sam was being _raped, _for fuck sake!

The shifter-wendigo moved up and down in fast, painful looking strokes that jostled Sam's head from side to side.

"_You sonofabitch!_" Dean roared, tears suddenly streaming down his face.

Caught up in his anguish and fury, he grabbed his duffle and yanked open the zip, immediately sweeping up the silver Taurus. But his hands were shaking so much that he dropped it.

"Dammit!"

Usually so graceful and in control, Dean was rapidly falling apart. Before he could retrieve the weapon he glanced at the screen just in time to see Sam's eyes flicker open.

"No, Sammy," he whispered futilely. "Shut your eyes, little brother. Don't look at it… _please_ don't look at it."

He saw the moment Sam realised what was happening to him when fear and self-disgust enveloped the kid's face, and his brother's muffled cries broke Dean's heart.

"Just hold on, kiddo."

Channelling his anger into regaining much needed composure, Dean picked up the fallen Taurus and checked it for silver bullets.

"I'll get you out of there, I promise."

Next, he grabbed his father's journal, and stared down at the leather cover.

"I'm sorry, dad. I got no choice."

* * *

**TBC.**

**Well, here it is. That dark, humorous story I promised you all before Christmas. A thousand apologies for the long wait, but as some of you know my health has been somewhat fragile these past twelve months. And when I finally made it back to work in August, I lasted less than two hours before I was right back in hospital again, this time for an emergency hernia operation. **

**So, in between that, returning to work, fighting chest pain, colitis, dogged by constant fatigue, and waves of medication induced nausea, I finally managed to finish this for you guys. Enjoy!**

**Please note: it is complete in twelve chapters, so please do not make any requests or suggestions for this story.**

**Gimme lotsa love in your reviews, and I'll post the next chapter very, **_**very**_** soon…**

**Love and hugs,**

**ST xxx**


	2. Chapter 2

**Born of Ill Intent.**

**Please read the warnings from chapter one.**

**Many belated thanks to my wonderful beta reader, Neats, for all her help and encouragement. Couldn't have done it without you, babe!**

* * *

**Chapter Two.**

Sam lay there in the dark, tugging weakly on his chained wrists and ankles. Whatever that bitch had drugged him with was still in his system, making his head spin and his stomach churn.

This was no way for a hunter to die; tied to a bed, beaten and raped, choking on his own vomit. His father would be ashamed of him, not to mention how Dean would react…

He had no idea how much time had passed before he heard the key in the lock. The door clicked open letting in a tiny sliver of light for a brief instant, enough to tell Sam it was still daytime outside.

Moments later, a nightstand lamp was switched on, revealing his new visitors.

It wasn't the blond girl this time, but two tall guys with biceps big enough to wrestle a fully grown bull into submission. Sam stilled his movements and watched them warily as they approached, not liking the leering grins and over-invested smugness.

With a sinking heart, he knew what was going to happen to him before they even spoke.

"So you're Sam Winchester," said the dark haired guy. His teeth were tobacco stained, his clothes ill fitting, and his cowboy boots were covered in mud.

Or shit, possibly. It was hard to tell in the dim motel room light, and Sam was trying not to sniff too hard in his direction.

The guy turned to his companion.

"Wow! You were right; he sure is a pretty one." He leered at Sam again, practically drooling with lust. "Just like his mother, God rest her."

Sam made a slight noise of surprise and fear that had both men grinning widely, eyes flashing silver.

"Yeah, that's right, kid," the guy spoke again. The mattress under Sam's body dipped as he sat down to study his captive closely. "Every shifter knows your background, where you came from... _who _you came from. So when my little brother, here, or should I say _sister,_" he indicated the other guy, who Sam now guessed to be the original blond girl from the bar, "ran into the infamous Winchester brothers, sons of that bastard John Winchester, well..."

He leaned forward until his eyes were only inches from Sam. "We simply _couldn't_ pass up the opportunity to get to know you a little better."

"Mmmphmmmph," Sam mumbled, helplessly, shaking his head. "Nnnmmmph."

He could smell stale whisky and smoke on his breath and almost vomited right there and then.

"I'll bet you can guess what's gonna happen now, huh, kid?" the guy said in a low growl that had the hairs on the back of Sam's neck rising.

Sweat trickled down his face and dread curdled in his stomach.

_No... please... not that... _his muffled cries and protests were laughed at, as the two shifters unchained him. He struggled as hard as he could, fought and kicked, and yelled into his gag, but to no avail. These monsters were too strong for him, and soon had him flipped over, his face mashed into a musty pillow, wrists re-chained behind his back, and legs forced apart. He turned his head to one side and worked at spitting out his gag, but one of the shifters chuckled, almost affectionately, and grabbed a bandana from the nightstand.

"Don't bother kid," he said, pinching off Sam's nose between index finger and thumb. "No one's gonna hear ya."

The gag was shoved back deep into Sam's mouth, almost choking him, and secured there with the bandana, the ends knotted tightly at the back of his head.

Sam closed his eyes in despair while the shifters forced him to his knees, presenting his ass like a gift. He felt the hot tears spill over onto his cheeks and dampen the pillow beneath his face, tried to close his ears to the crazed, triumphant shouts of his captors, felt that first, painful thrust accompanied by a harsh grunt of satisfaction from behind him.

There had been no preparation, nothing to ease the way, and something tore inside him, releasing a flow of hot, sharp liquid, and the scent of iron filled his nostrils.

His own blood.

"Fuck, you're so damn tight," he heard the older guy growling from between gritted teeth. Nails dug deep into Sam's hips, holding him in place and drawing more blood. A rough hand gripped his hair, pushing his face down hard into the pillow. "Bet you've never been ass-raped before, huh? Might keep you around a little longer. Maybe your brother will have to wait a couple more days before we've finished with you."

The thrusts became rougher, harder, faster, and Sam screamed until his voice cracked, his broken sobs muffled by both the gag and the pillow.

As much as he wanted Dean to barge into the room at that moment, full on smash the door down, and race to his rescue like the hero he'd always been, Sam didn't think he could live with the shame and hurt of being discovered like this.

He wanted to die, to let go and never wake up again.

The tears dried on his face and his eyes stared off into the distance, mind beginning to separate itself from body, and from this hell.

The shifters took turns with him time and again, until blood saturated the bed sheets and dripped onto the floor.

Sam welcomed the blackness with open arms when it finally came for him.

* * *

Dean stood by the broken down stone jetty, waiting impatiently.

He'd been sent another email, two days after Sam's disappearance. Two days of tearing the damn town apart looking for him. He'd stalked the sewers under the streets with a silver loaded twelve bore and a silver short sword, face set in a fierce scowl and frightening the hell out of any vagrants or rats who were stupid enough to get in his way.

He checked out every roach infested motel he could find in the area, of which there were only four.

Dean lost count of how many times he'd returned to that bar, questioning patrons and staff, sometimes outright threatening. But while some remembered seeing the kid, drunk off his face and leaving with some blond chick holding him up, no one knew where he went.

Sam rarely got drunk and in any case, light weight though he was, it would have taken longer than half an hour before the kid began to feel the effects of a few whisky shots. He was built like a tree, for Christ sakes!

Bitch must've pumped him full of some serious shit to get him in that state.

But Dean was also fuming at himself.

If only he'd known. If only he hadn't gotten so damn drunk that night, he would have spotted that Sam's bed was empty under the mound of blankets.

If only he'd turned on the fucking light.

Dean's fingers drummed against his father's journal, narrowed eyes scanning the area, his nostrils flared in fury.

The message had been clear. Bring the journal to the lake, alone, unarmed and in full view, or Sammy buys it.

There were many lakes in the area. It was lake country. Hence the name of the brothers' motel: the Lake House Motel.

The dickheads hadn't mentioned _which_ fucking lake, so Dean was forced to disobey instructions and reply to the email. His message had been short and to the point.

But the video that came attached to the responding email had Dean spitting fire and roaring with madness. The sight of his little brother's second brutal rape – _gang _rape - had been too much to bear.

Dean had never felt so incensed and helpless, but it was the blank look in the kid's eyes and dull expression on his face... that was something Dean would never, ever forget.

The bastards were gonna pay for this. Dearly.

Movement from the other side of the lake caught his attention.

A small motor boat calmly chugged its way across and moored up at the end of the stone jetty.

Dean watched as two of the biggest guys he'd ever seen dragged a bound, limp figure up from the bottom of the boat.

He knew exactly who it was, despite the blood stained hessian sack over his head.

_Shit! Is he even alive? _Dean felt a moment of blind panic that he might be too late to save his brother, followed by a fresh surge of rage when the captors dumped Sam painfully on his knees, dangerously close to the edge of the jetty, and none too gently ripped the sack from his head.

Dean barely held in a gasp. It looked like the poor kid had been beaten to a pulp, and then some.

"Jesus Christ!" Dean muttered under his breath.

No field surgery was gonna fix this.

Sam's eyes were badly bruised and almost swollen shut, arms bound behind his back, at the wrists and elbows by plastic ties that cut into his flesh.

His right arm made Dean's stomach churn just to look at, swollen to twice the size of the other, and covered in deep, black bruising. It was obviously broken.

As if that weren't enough, his legs were also bound together at the knees and ankles by more plastic ties.

Blood stained the thick, dirty white towel wrapped round his mouth as a gag, almost completely obscuring the lower half of his face. Given how his nostrils were virtually clogged up with dried blood, it was a miracle the kid could breathe properly.

Either these guys were spectacularly sick, or they had a one hell of a bondage kink. Dean was willing to bet on both.

He carried on with his visual inspection.

Sam's t-shirt and jeans were equally soaked in both fresh and dried blood. Had Sam been wearing black or blue jeans the night he was taken? Dean couldn't remember, and there was now no way of knowing.

Kid was a mess, exhausted, badly injured, and Dean suspected that the only reason Sam was able to sit upright on his knees was because of the shifter's hand tangled in his hair, holding him cruelly tight.

The shifter chuckled, sounding like a drain being cleared, and gave a vicious tug on Sam's hair, wrenching a soft, muffled moan of pain from the kid.

Dean scowled, angrily.

_You're gonna pay for that, too, you bastard!_

The two shifters stood behind Sam, grinning widely.

"Really? And how's that gonna happen?" said the one with tobacco stained teeth, gripping Sam's hair even tighter and this time shaking him like a dog with a chew toy. "I think you're the one doin' all the payin', 'specially if you want your baby brother back alive."

Dean tried to cover his shock. Every hunter worth their salt knew that shifters could acquire personal information from their victims to use against them once they took their skin, much like a mental download, but this was the first time they had exhibited actual mind reading capabilities.

Dean opened his mouth to issue a few threats of his own, but realised the futility of such a gesture when the shifter yanked on Sam's hair once again, pulled hard, and dragged his captive closer to the water.

Sam dangled precariously over the edge of the jetty, inches from death. The water appeared to surge a little, as though it was an alive and sentient being, excited by the smell of Sam's blood, the lake desperate to reach up and claim him for its own.

Sam let out a strangled noise that broke Dean's heart just a little more. He'd hoped the poor kid was barely aware of what was going on, but he was sadly mistaken.

Sam's bruised eyes swivelled in their sockets, the only part of him he was able to move, until they rested on Dean. The blue-green slits were dull, filled with pain and something else Dean couldn't quite discern at first, but as he held Sam's weary gaze for a long moment, he soon realised what it was.

_Shame, resignation, death._

Sam had given up.

And, despite the momentary flash of anger and grief that thought procured, in all honesty, Dean couldn't blame him. Poor kid had been violated in every way imaginable; humiliated and tortured by these monsters in human guise, all over a damn, stupid book.

Leather and paper.

It wasn't worth Sam's life.

Sheer, white hot anger, coupled with a ton of regrets, pushed Dean to act.

He felt the weight of his dad's journal, hefted it in his hands, felt the weight of this life, dad's life, _Sam's... _all of it, _all on his shoulders_.

Enough was enough.

Maybe he couldn't save Sam in time. Poor kid was half dead already, but Dean could give him one last gift: proof, that some things were more important than vengeance, or the job, or even saving people.

Proof, that his big brother loved him above all else.

_Hold on Sammy. Please hold on for me._

Tobacco laughed. "I know what you're thinking, kid. Forget it. I know you won't risk little Sammy's life."

Dean stared long and hard at the journal in his hands, then slowly raised his head.

"I won't say I'm not disappointed," he said, sounding almost sad. "Guess I stupidly expected a little more finesse from shit eaters like you. But then," Dean chuckled, shook his head, and the two shifters glanced at each other, suddenly looking nervous. "Your luck ran out the very moment you set your sights on my little brother."

"That so?" said Tobacco, no longer sounding so confident. "But you forget yourself, _Dean._" He sneered, suddenly. "We hold all the aces."

Dean now stared hard at _him_, face devoid of all expression, all emotions shut down.

"_You_ forget, asshole," he told the shifters, calmly. "I also know what _you're _thinking. And you had no intention of letting either of us walk away from this."

Dean's muscles tensed under his jacket, getting ready, gearing up for what lay ahead.

"And that," he pulled his hand back.

"Pisses," he hoisted the journal into the air.

"Me," took great satisfaction at the looks of angry disbelief forming on their faces.

He grinned. _Mind read this, you fuckers!_

"OFF!" and launched John Winchester's journal into the lake.

As it sank into the depths, lost forever, bubbles chased each other up to the surface, gasping for freedom with tiny pops, only to lose themselves to the world above.

A fair exchange, some might say.

The shifters, unable to believe what just happened, were frozen in shock just long enough for Dean to pull out his Taurus and fire twice. Each silver round hit their mark, dead centre and, without giving them another thought, Dean took off at a run, tossing aside his weapon, and stripping out of his leather jacket, mind only intent on saving his brother from what was coming next.

Each shifter blinked in shock as they stared down at their chests. Blood pumped and sprayed for an instant, then slowed as their black hearts gave out. The hand wound in Sam's hair loosened its grip in the throes of death; the poor kid landed with a splash, face first in the lake, and sank almost immediately.

Just as Dean dived in after him, he saw both shifters fall backwards, their faces slack and eyes glazed over. That was all he needed to see.

He swam until his lungs were fit to burst, and then swam some more, eyes scanning the gloomy water for his brother, until finally he saw a floating shadow in the distance, surrounded by a growing cloud of red. The kid, unable to move let alone swim, must have drifted pretty quickly because he was now some way from the jetty.

Dean frowned. There was no movement, not even a struggle, no sign of life.

If he stopped now, if he kicked to the surface for a lung refill, Sam would die. The clock was ticking, and if Dean also died in this attempt, then all was well.

He and Sam would go together, and that was more than they could ever ask for in this life.

Some ten feet down, his vision began to darken, lungs no longer screaming for air; his body had passed through the pain barrier and re-emerged with renewed purpose. It gave his determination that last little boost, and soon his arms were wrapped round his little brother's waist, holding him close.

Dean kicked feebly, trying for the surface, but he knew it was probably too late for the both of them. Still kicking, just for the sake of it, he cupped one hand to the back of Sam's head, tugged and fumbled with the knots until he finally pulled away the gag. He gently stroked the kid's hair as it moved and swayed with the motion of the blood reddened water.

Staring at Sam through the murky gloom, and taking in his closed eyes and slack mouth, Dean nodded. His lungs no longer burned, cooled by the water filling them, and it didn't hurt as much as he thought it would. Instead, a strange peace settled over him, and he took comfort in it. He drew Sam closer and buried his face in the kid's neck.

_Sammy, I'm here. I'll always be here._

As he lost consciousness, still clinging to his little brother, a smile slowly formed on Dean's face.

A peaceful, reassuring smile, meant only for Sam.

* * *

**TBC.**

**Oh dear! What have I done to the boys?**

**MWwwwahahahahaha!**

**Bitch, ain't I!**

**Leave me some love, and I'll set you free from the evil cliffie…**

**Love and hugs,**

**ST xxx**


	3. Chapter 3

**Born of Ill Intent.**

**Please see warnings from chapter one.**

* * *

**Chapter Three.**

Bobby Singer paced the hallway continuously, as he had the last eight hours or so. It had started out as a march; a frustrated but vigilant stride, narrowed eyes scanning the nurses' station and the opposite ends of the hallway every time something or someone moved. But that soon slowed to a 'proceeding' pace, which is purposeful but unhurried, with hands clasped behind the back; a swinging-of-the-foot pace that can last all day and well into the night if practiced properly.

Bobby was exhausted. He was getting old.

He was getting pissed as all hell at hunters going after his boys.

All that vampire crap with Gordon Walker had been bad enough, but this?

This was intolerable.

That these were _shifters _only pissed him off all the more.

As for the boys themselves...

"Idgits," Bobby mumbled, fighting to stay angry with the Winchesters.

Anger helped. It kept him distracted from the all-consuming fear that he nearly _did_ fucking lose them this time, Godammit!

Getting a call from an Emergency Room on the other side of the country at two o'clock in the fucking morning had pushed Bobby to near cardiac arrest proportions, especially since he'd only been asleep an hour. The first hour he'd had in two days after returning from a werewolf hunt in Colorado.

Fearing the worst, Bobby had changed into a cheap suit and jumped on the first flight out. Tired and angry, looking like he'd been dragged through a bush backwards by his old compadres: Economy Travel, Sleep Deprivation and Bone Deep Worry, Bobby kept attracting suspicious glances from airport security. But he wasn't in the mood for one of their holier than thou, bend–over-touch-your-toes, rubber glove treatments today, thank you so _very_ damn much. One flash of his fake FBI badge, and they'd nodded him through like they were frigging royalty granting him special favours or something.

"Assholes," he muttered and checked his watch for the millionth time.

"Bobby Singer?" a deep, gravelly voice called out. "Well, damn! You look like shit. When's the last time you slept?"

Bobby swung round from his musings to face a big, broad, dark skinned doctor around his own age, sporting a large greying afro that practically touched the ceiling. He was wearing a white coat so many sizes too small that it was a wonder the buttons didn't ping off in all directions.

The guy loomed over Bobby, frowning and tapping a pen on his clipboard.

"Round 'bout the last time I ate," Bobby replied with a shake of the head. "Probably last year, if memory serves."

The newcomer's frown deepened. "I sure hope you're just pullin' my chain, boy!"

Bobby appeared to consider that. "Do in-flight peanuts count as food?"

"Depends," came the acerbic reply. "Did you actually eat them this time? Or try to shove them down the flight attendant's throat?"

Bobby looked shifty. "That guy had it coming. I _told_ him to stop touching me like that…"

"Bobby, that flight attendant was a _she,_" replied the doc, now fighting a grin.

"Wouldn't have known it to look at her," Bobby grumbled right back. "What with the Adam's Apple and the huge bear paws for hands."

"That was a double chin! Poor woman was sweet on you, you big lug."

"Still counts as sexual harassment!" Bobby said, indignantly. "One false move and I'd've been clubbed over the head and carried back to her cave over her big, bear like shoulders. Now that's some kinky shit even _I_ ain't in to!"

The doc shook his head and chuckled. "You ain't changed a bit."

"Neither have you, William Barnet," said Bobby, a small smirk curling his mouth. "And as for looking like shit, I always look like this, so what's new?"

His smirk faded as Bobby regarded his old acquaintance for a moment, studying the deep lines on his face and the circles under his eyes.

_Guess I'm not the only one in need of a facial. _"Long time no see, doc."

"Sure is," replied William, now equally as solemn. "Wish it was under better circumstances."

"Yeah," Bobby decided to cut to the chase. The clock was ticking, the time for pleasantries long gone. "In a nut shell, exactly what happened to my boys?"

* * *

He'd tried to find out from the cops but it seemed this bunch were exceptionally smart, which was largely considered to be a rarity as far as the hunting world was concerned. They were evasive and dismissive, muttering something about mob tactics and reprisals.

All bullshit, of course.

When he played the FBI card they called his bluff and threatened to contact the agency direct, rather than through the fake number Bobby had given them.

So Bobby tried another angle. He claimed Sam and Dean as his nephews. That hadn't worked out too well either, with the cops refusing to allow his involvement in the case due to his personal relationship with the victims.

Finally, he was told, quite pointedly, to fuck off and stop asking questions.

Yeah, right.

The doctor studied his old friend with dark, curious eyes, then nodded back at him.

"In a nut shell, your boys took care of that little problem we'd been having up here..."

The little problem consisted of what appeared to be simple theft and murder, not something hunters usually got involved in but with Bobby busy on his own hunt, Sam's instincts had insisted the brothers take on the gig.

When Bobby first spoke with Dean at the beginning, the younger guy had been doubtful that this was even their kind of case, but the thefts had been followed by a string of arrests where the accused had vehemently protested their innocence. During the course of the brothers' investigation, Sam had listened to them, spent hours reading over their statements, studied the evidence over and over, and the inconsistencies had just kept on mounting up.

Alibis, CCTV footage, witness statements all pointed to a shifter, a dangerous kind of lowlife with a nasty sense of humour, a vicious streak a mile wide, and no conscience whatsoever. They usually squatted in dark, dank places like old basements and underground sewers, but Bobby knew the boys had searched every square mile of the city below ground. No, _this_ shifter apparently had a more cunning game plan.

It seemed the thing had been living with their victims' families for quite some time, weeks or months in some cases, socialising with their friends, eventually stealing everything of value from right under their noses and brutally murdering them in their sleep. Once the job was done, the victims were freed to face the music, arrested and charged with multiple counts of first degree murder.

Two such victims had already made it on to death row, and there was little Sam and Dean could do to help those poor schmucks. But there was plenty they could do for the ones that would follow.

The brothers had tangled with shifters before and barely escaped with their lives but, in spite of Dean's better judgment, Sam convinced him they should stay on and try to win this one.

Except, Bobby mused, in this case there'd obviously been more than one shifter at work, since the one Sam and Dean first crossed paths with was already deep fried extra crispy, as Dean so smugly put it.

That made three, which was close to extraordinary.

_Two _shifters working together was a rare enough phenomenon, but even more unlikely was finding them working the same territory as the deceased shifter.

And once they'd realised who was hunting them, all bets were off.

Bobby huffed out a breath. He'd listened to the frantic voicemail messages from Dean before his flight, the kid having tried to contact him when he was off hunting werewolves. He'd gotten the gist of the situation and the extent of Sam's peril, but no real info. There had been a mention of video messages and the barest details of what had sounded like a sexual assault, but Bobby wasn't certain and hoped like hell he'd heard it all wrong. The voice messages had been crackly with static and Dean… well, the kid was obviously freaking out.

As for the possibility of eliminating the sons of John Winchester? No shifter worth their salt would have passed up a chance like that.

Sam and Dean were caught with their pants down, metaphorically speaking, in a smoky, crowded bar.

By the sounds of things, either Sam had gotten blind drunk, or been Mickey Finned and abducted in a _very _public place.

And that had to hurt...

"You ok, man? You seem kind of distant," the doc's deep voice rumbled softly.

Bobby shook himself and nodded. "Yep."

William raised a sceptical eyebrow, but continued anyway.

"They sure were lucky, in many respects. Both had to be resuscitated post drowning, though the younger one, Sam, had to be treated for multiple fractures, a broken arm, cigarette burns, and..." he looked uncomfortable. "Well. It looked like the poor kid had the shit beaten out of him. He was bound hand and foot when they pulled him out of the lake."

Bobby's fist clenched tightly at his sides. "Go on," he growled.

The doc bit his lip and winced, probably without realising he'd done so. Which told Bobby this was one of those 'news I don't want to tell the family' moments.

"The older guy, Dean, appeared to be relatively unscathed. I think he jumped into the lake to save his brother. He just needed oxygen therapy and treatment for mild hypothermia; he's up and about as we speak, in fact. But Sam..." the doc was stalling and Bobby knew it.

"What about Sam?" he demanded to know, shoulders squaring up and face hardening.

William hesitated, and briefly glanced down at his toes, as if seeking the strength to get it all out.

"He suffered severe anal bruising and tearing. Lost a lot of blood as a result," the doc told Bobby, quietly. "In my opinion, I'd say that Sam was violently raped several times over, possibly before _and_ after he took a beating."

Bobby stared at him in disbelief. He'd known it was bad...

_Jesus._

"Who found them?" he asked, hoarsely, and leaned against the wall to cover his shock.

The doc nodded and began to explain in full.

Local Rescue Dog trainer, Ned Trilsbury, was heading on home after a night walk when he heard two gun shots. He ran through the trees to the lake just in time to see someone fall into the water at the end of the jetty. At the same time, a guy running along the shoreline shucked aside his jacket, and went in after him. When neither of the two guys surfaced, Ned gave a short command, and his two young Newfoundlands raced into the water and swam out to the rescue.

"Ned put in a 911 call before he followed them in," the doc watched Bobby's face, carefully. "It wasn't until after the ambulance showed up, and the two drowning victims were stabilised, that someone noticed the dead bodies at the far end of the jetty."

Bobby's kept all expression from his face, but nodded.

"They'd been shot," said the doc. "That's when the cops were called in."

Bobby drew in a shaky breath. "Did they find the weapon?"

"No, but last I heard a Ballistics squad was being drafted in from out of state. Might take days to get here. And the cops are in the process of dragging the lake," said the doc. Then he smiled mysteriously. "Ned's an old friend of mine, so I doubt they'll find anything. Even if they do, finger prints'll be long gone."

Bobby raised an eyebrow, knowingly.

"Tell Ned, much appreciated. Now," he rolled his shoulders. "Where's my boys?"

* * *

Dean coughed himself awake and blinked at his surroundings.

Huh.

So he hadn't been mugged, drugged and wrestled back into bed. He guessed the nurse knew better than to threaten a Winchester with a hypodermic needle. The current count stood at two attempts. Perhaps they had better things to do with their time than chase around after reluctant patients.

Dean glanced over at his little brother and struggled into an upright sitting position. His ass tingled uncomfortably with the movement and he bit back a groan.

Why subject worried, stressed-out relatives to the torture of plastic hospital chairs? He wondered, scowling deeply. Maybe it was in the hope that said worried, stressed-out relatives wouldn't spend so much time at the patient's bedside, getting in the way of treatment and monitoring.

No such luck. Dean wasn't budging from this spot accept to beg, borrow or steal coffee, or to use the bathroom.

Yawning and stretching as much as his aching muscles would allow, Dean's eyes roamed up and down Sammy's bed. The kid was still heavily sedated to allow adequate healing time, but Dean could take comfort in the slow, steady rise and fall of Sam's chest. They'd both been on oxygen therapy at some point, Sam more so than Dean, partly due to his injuries but mostly because he'd been underwater for much longer. Eventually, he would also be free of the oxygen tank and mask.

Dean still couldn't believe their luck. He'd fully expected to never leave that damn lake alive, and not only had he survived it but his little brother was also still here with him.

In-fucking-credible.

Just when he thought the world had given up on them, and society had tossed them head first into the cess pit of despair and torment, along comes a couple of giant-assed rescue dogs to save the day.

The large patches of dried doggy drool on their clothes had been evidence enough, even without the doc's explanation.

He only hoped the gentle fur balls were rewarded with prime steaks for their dinner.

Dean smiled slightly. It seemed they hadn't only struck gold on the rescue front either. As doctors went, theirs was a rare find indeed.

It turned out that William Barnet, as he'd introduced himself on Dean's brief awakening in the ER, knew Bobby Singer from way back.

Their doctor, a cool, middle aged black guy with an afro Dean couldn't help admiring, had kept the police at bay for the time being, so the Winchesters were temporarily free from interrogation.

Given that it was a double murder investigation, along with kidnapping and rape, Dean was kind of surprised at that, but the doc refused to explain.

"What you don't know," the big guy had rumbled at Dean with a half-smile, "can't get anyone arrested... yet."

Whatever he'd told the cops about the two brothers fished, half-dead, out of the lake, he wasn't letting on.

_Maybe he told them we were actually dead, or something._

Dean quickly glanced at Sam's face, his smile fading.

God. _Rape_.

He had no idea how he was going to help Sammy through the aftermath of this. The desolate look on the poor kid's face before he took a nosedive into the lake had become stuck in Dean's head, a reminder of his failure.

It wasn't fair.

_Life_ wasn't fair, he reflected grimly, but in this case it truly sucked ass.

He looked at the solid, white cast housing Sam's broken right arm, then glanced at the bandages criss-crossing the kid's chest and stomach. Sam's face was healing the fastest, the swelling having gone down a fair amount in the last few hours, but his eyes were still bruised, his mouth, under the oxygen mask, still split, battered and rimmed with dry, flaking skin. His wrists were bandaged, the skin broken and bloodied from the plastic ties, and whatever else had been employed to restrain him.

Dean's fists clenched.

Last thing he remembered, before running out of air, was the lake turning red. Red with Sam's blood, lifted off his scruffy jeans by the water. His little brother had been haemorrhaging badly, even as he was drowning.

Dean bit back a sob, eyes filling with tears.

How could he have allowed this to happen? How could the kid ever forgive him?

He sniffed, angry at himself for allowing a self-pity shindig at a time like this, rubbed a hand up his face and into his hair, then checked his watch. Bobby would be here soon, he mused, if he wasn't already.

"Hey Sam? I'm just gonna check outside," he whispered, giving Sam's hand a gentle squeeze. "You hang in there. I'll be back before you know it."

Sam frowned a little and a small huffing noise came through the oxygen mask, as though he could hear but couldn't respond and it was pissing him off.

Dean leaned over and pressed his mouth to Sam's ear.

"Don't fight it, ok? Don't try to wake up just yet," he told his brother, softly. "You ain't ready for that, kiddo, but you will be soon enough. Just chill and let yourself heal."

After another quick hand squeeze, Dean moved away from the bed.

He stuck his head outside the door just as William and Bobby were about to knock, startling all three of them.

"Whoa!" said Dean, recoiling slightly, eyes wide, hands up, palms outwards as though warding off a gunman. "Dude, you scared me."

Bobby glared at him. "_We _scared _you?_"

Dean shook his head. "Nah, only you," his grin was weak, but at least it was there. "You'd scare a wendigo off its dinner with that face."

Bobby froze, and Dean's grin dropped when he realised what he'd said.

All video footage emails of Sam's rape and ordeal at the hands of his captors had been deleted, though, unfortunately, Dean could still see it all in his mind's eye whenever it crept up on him, and Bobby could still hear Dean's wrecked voice in his garbled messages.

_... raped, Bobby! Sam was kidnapped… shifter… damn wendigo..._

William glanced between the two men. He knew about wendigos, had treated Bobby Singer after he'd almost been disembowelled by one some years back, but he'd never actually _seen_ a wendigo. Not even a picture.

Never wanted to, either.

Movement at the other end of the hallway caught his attention before anything more could be said.

Two cops had arrived and both were looking right at Dean. Eyebrows raised, they started moving forward, slowly at first, but gained speed with each step.

William nudged the two hunters until they understood his warning, then grabbed Bobby's arm and pushed him in through the doorway, taking Dean with him.

"Shit," Dean muttered, worriedly, at the same time as Bobby.

William nodded. There was no time to lose.

"If we're gonna get you boys out of here, then I suggest we move now," he said, quietly.

"How?" asked Dean, his gaze anxiously flitting between Sam and the door.

"Watch and learn." William grinned and disconnected Sam's heart monitor.

Outside in the hallway, alarms sounded and lights flashed at the monitoring station, galvanising the medical staff into action.

Immediately, the approaching cops were caught up in the drama of a so-called 'code blue', and were roughly pushed to one side by nurses carrying various medical equipment. The cops stood by helplessly until they were yelled at to "get the hell out of our Goddamn way!"

Realising their target was slipping away, the cops stared in angry surprise as the cacophony disappeared inside Sam Winchester's room, and the door was slammed shut in their faces.

One of them pressed their ear to the door.

"Anything?" his partner inquired, hovering nervously nearby.

"Just a lot of shouting, panicking, and someone being shocked..."

The door opened abruptly, a hand shot out and the first cop felt a pinch in his neck.

In less than a second he was pitching forward into someone's arms, and he knew no more.

As a sheet covered gurney was immediately wheeled out of the room, the second cop didn't even have time to gasp before the same thing happened to him, and his last view was of a stern looking, bearded guy in a ball cap, lowering him to the floor.

It wasn't a nice picture to be left with, so it was just as well that he remembered absolutely nothing about it when he woke up in his police issue squad car several hours' later, still in uniform, and it was pitch dark outside.

His partner grunted as he also slowly came awake, and the two of them stared at each other in shock.

"What the hell?" the first one mumbled.

"Dunno, dude," said the other, blinking heavily. Then he saw something out the corner of his eye and his mouth dropped open. "Uh... Did we get wasted, or something?"

On the seat between them was a three-quarters empty bottle of Jim Beam, and the car, incidentally, smelled like a distillery had set up shop in a tray of kitty litter.

The two cops sat in panicked silence for a minute or two.

What the hell were we thinking? The first cop thought. Damned if I can even remember buying the liquor in the first place!

Out loud he said, decisively "Air freshener".

"Ditch the bottle," said the second, nodding furiously.

The first one looked a little green as he whispered, fearfully: "Can't believe we did this again. Not after we nearly got caught on your birthday last year."

There was another pause, before they both said simultaneously, "This never happened."

Neither were about to risk their careers over a drunken binge they couldn't even remember, especially after what had amounted to a _really_ rough fucking day.

They drove home _very_ carefully that night, and never once talked about it again.

By the time they returned to the hospital to conduct their interviews, the two drowning victims had disappeared into the wide blue yonder, and their doctor, the absolute picture innocence, claimed he had no idea where they'd gone.

After a brief explanation on the phone, the police captain had carefully explained to his subordinates in a low, menacing tone what would happen to them if they didn't find the victims and have their statements on his desk by the end of the day. In his opinion, an unconscious witness was no excuse for flouting standard procedures.

A hurried check of hospital CCTV footage revealed that the cameras had mysteriously malfunctioned the previous day, and were in the process of being fixed.

The cops were left with two dead bodies, no weapon, and one angry mother of a Captain.

The case had reached an abrupt dead end, and absolutely no one was seeking promotion over _this _fiasco.

**TBC.**

**So, what happens to the boys now?**

**Let me know,**

**How much **_**you**_** wanna know,**

**And I'll **_**let you**_** know…**

…**in the next chapter!**

**Oh, and I know bugger all about police, emigration or FBI procedures, so please: no smug bastard guest reviews about it eh? **

**Don't waste your time 'cos I'll only delete them!**

**Many thanks for all the wonderful reviews I've received so far. Must admit, I'm pleasantly surprised I've had this many, given the nature of the fic.**

**Love ST xxx**


	4. Chapter 4

**Born of Ill Intent.**

** Please read warnings from chapter one. **

**Note for those who are reading but not reviewing:**

**After lamenting that the review numbers were dropping, I received a PM this morning from a friend, advising me that I would get more reviews if I only posted one chapter every few days, or even only one a week. **

**That seems a bit unfair to me, and especially unfair on those readers that DO leave a review for each chapter. **

**Is that person saying that you people need to have a carrot dangled in front of you in order to procure more encouragement? **

**That you're all ungrateful donkeys and I'm being far too generous with you all by posting so frequently? **

**That I have to withhold the story just to give you all a big kick up the backside 'cos you're all spoilt children?**

**I sure hope not! After all, I don't ask for much, just a nice "thanks for sharing" or "well done" ain't gonna kill ya, right?**

**Now start reviewing or I might just seriously consider it! Let's see those review numbers go up…**

**Do as ya told, bitches! ;-)**

* * *

**Chapter Four.**

Dean waited for the signal from William – a loud clearing of the throat (_Very original, _thought Dean. _But I guess it's better than an owl hoot)._ - then swept aside the sheet covering his hiding place and rolled out from the shelf underneath Sam's gurney.

Sam was still sleeping the sleep of the heavily drugged and Dean was relieved to see that he was breathing steadily. Good. Poor kid hadn't been affected or jostled too much during their escape.

When he looked around, he realised they were in the staff parking lot and heading for a patient transport vehicle. An ambulance of sorts for escorting patients home in comfort and safety.

"Hey Sammy," he whispered, gently, and grasped a limp hand, running the pads of his fingers over Sam's bruised knuckles. "We're home free. Gonna be ok, now."

Bobby threw open the rear door of the ambulance. "Not yet. We still have to make it across the state line. Soon as the alarm's raised they'll be looking for ya."

"Don't worry," said William with grim determination. "I've bought you enough time so long as you just get going. Here," he passed over a paper bag that rattled slightly. "Sam's meds. If you need anything else give me a call soon as you're settled. And don't worry about the rest of the staff." He grinned and tapped his nose. "They owed me a few favours."

There was just one thing left to worry about.

"What about my car?" Dean asked, eyeing the ambulance with mistrust. The Impala was their home. Sam was _safe_ in the Impala. An ambulance just couldn't take care of Sam like Dean's baby.

Bobby barely refrained from rolling his eyes. "Already being towed by Rufus – courtesy of Mr Johnny Walker," he added, rather sardonically. "I got her all wrapped up and hidden away inside a tarp. No one can use her to find you boys."

Dean nodded. That was good enough for him. Now he could fully concentrate on getting Sam well again, something Dean wasn't altogether confident he could achieve.

"It'll take time," William said, suddenly, his voice quiet. "You don't just get over something like that. It's never that simple." He slipped something inside Dean's jacket breast pocket and gave it a quick pat. "That's my number. I meant what I said. When things get tough, and they will, make sure you call me."

Dean stared at Sam's unmoving form.

_When_ things get tough, the guy had said.

_When..._

_And they will..._

Bobby had slid behind the wheel, and waited with poorly concealed impatience while Dean, with William's help, loaded his brother in the back.

The doc spent a few minutes going over Sam's meds, antibiotics, wound treatment, and showed Dean how to change the oxygen tank, then they were all saying their goodbyes.

Dean settled in the back, his right hand firmly curled around Sam's uninjured one, the left idly stroking the kid's hair. Sam was still deep under and wouldn't be waking up for quite some time, so Dean felt safe from ridicule. Bobby didn't mention it, just started the engine and pulled away smoothly, a comfortable silence filling the time it took to leave the hospital grounds and make it over the state line.

Bobby insisted on driving; refused to let Dean behind the wheel. Given his exhausted state, both physically and mentally, that was probably for the best.

They only stopped for coffee, food and toilet breaks; even then they didn't stay for long and never spoke to anyone beyond what was deemed polite or strictly necessary. Bobby seemed driven to get as far away from the hospital as possible and never once looked back.

Dean might have raised an eyebrow at the older hunter's behaviour, but he was too busy keeping a close eye on Sam and administering his meds every so often.

It wasn't until a few days later that Dean realised they weren't heading back to Singer Salvage, as he'd first assumed. So preoccupied with keeping watch over his brother, he hadn't noticed the change in course. But as the sun slid across the sky, birds soaring in the high blue, he felt the ambulance begin to climb. The landscape gradually changed from scrub and grassland to thickly growing clumps of coniferous trees. Soon, the trees came together to form a vast forest, its thick canopy heavily laden with snow.

"Yo, Bobby," he called softly from his vigil by Sam's bed. "Where we headed?"

Bobby eyed him in the rear view mirror.

"Someplace where no one can just mosey on in and scare the living shit out of us," he said. "Sam needs peace and solitude with people he can trust. Ain't gonna get that at the yard, kid."

Dean thought about it for a moment, then shrugged. Sounded like a good plan to him.

* * *

A few hours later, he woke up to the jostling and jolting of the ambulance blundering over bumpy ground. Yawning and stretching, he sat up straight and peered out into the darkening world.

On the left, nestled in among a thick patch of pines, almost hidden from view, was a low slung wooden cabin, backed on to the foothills of a nearby mountain. It was only one story high, with a long sloping roof and two chimney stacks. But that wasn't the only thing that caught Dean's attention.

"Dude!" he exclaimed in delight, squashing his nose up against the window. "Is that a hot tub?"

The corner of Bobby's mouth curled in amusement. "Sure is. And there's a steam room and sauna round the back."

"Awesome," Dean breathed, already itching to sink into hot, soothing, bubbling water and cleanse away all his aches and pains. Then he glanced at Sam, feeling guilty as hell. It would be a while before the poor kid was in any state to enjoy the luxuries laid out here. Dean was determined to wait until then, if necessary.

"How'd you know about this place anyways?" asked Dean, as the ambulance eased to a halt outside the front entrance of the cabin. Like Bobby's house at the yard, it was raised up a little and had a veranda running all the way around, but with two sets of steps, one at each end of the building. A comfortable looking porch swing, large enough to accommodate around four people, stood next to the main entrance, and Dean figured Sam would be using that a lot once he was up and about.

"It's a kind of hunter's retreat. Belongs to a friend of your Daddy's. I believe you've met him, in fact," Bobby replied, grabbing a duffle bag from behind his seat. "You wait here with your brother."

Before Dean could protest, Bobby leapt from the vehicle and jogged over to the left hand steps. As the older hunter's foot clomped down on the veranda, the front door swung open and a familiar grinning face emerged.

"Oho, Singer, me old friend!" he called out in a heavy Irish accent, strode over and pulled a very surprised Bobby into what looked to be an almost painful bear hug.

"Y... you h... haven't changed a b... bit, Jenkins," Bobby choked out, arms pinned to his sides, hands flailing desperately. "More's the pity!"

Dean blinked. "_Patch?_"

As though he could hear him, even through the thick glass of the ambulance window, Patch Jenkins turned that big, friendly smile on Dean, vaulted over the railings with the grace of a gazelle, and landed on both feet beside the rear double doors.

Dean barely had time to take a breath before Patch had the doors open and was climbing up inside.

The burly Irishman, who reminded Dean so much of their father, swung his gaze to Sam, lying still and unconscious on the gurney. He studied the youngest Winchester for a moment, and then returned his attention to Dean, taking in his tired, stressed features and the dark circles under the eyes.

"Dean, my boy," Patch intoned softly, smile now tinged with worry and genuine kindness. "I hear young Sam has been through the wars again, and you _both_ nearly bought it this time."

Dean nodded slowly. "Yeah," he mumbled, feeling suddenly and ridiculously shy for some weird reason. He cleared his throat and kept on clinging to his little brother's hand, as though even under sedation Sam was offering support. "Yeah, it was pretty bad. Sam... he..." he shook his head and ground his teeth together.

Patch reached over and clamped a hand down heavily on Dean's shoulder.

"I know," he told him, quietly. "Bobby told me everything over the phone. But we'll talk about it later, after some good food and a warming single malt."

Dean gazed up at him, disconcerted by the warm brown eyes and dark features. It both saddened and encouraged him.

Patch Jenkins, owner of the Cranberry Hotel situated along the Pacific Coast Highway, just outside Los Angeles, had once provided the brothers with a place of peace and sanctuary while Sammy was recovering from a serious illness.

It had all been Dean's fault. Following a ghostly interaction that had seriously screwed with his head, Sam had shot Dean in the chest with rock salt, and then gone on to shoot him in cold blood with Dean's own gun. Fortunately it wasn't loaded, but Sam hadn't known that at the time.

The brothers' lives had fallen into discord after that, with Dean refusing to talk or forgive Sam for what he'd tried to do. He even refused to share a motel room with the kid. It led to a near tragedy one unexpectedly freezing cold night near Venice Beach, when Dean had unknowingly taken the last available room, leaving his little brother to damn near freeze to death in the Impala. Heavy rain had turned into a snow blizzard, virtually unheard of in LA. It nearly buried the car and it had taken a kettle of hot water to unfreeze the door locks before Dean could get to Sam in time.

Later on in hospital, after Sammy regained consciousness, Dean had further added to his crimes when their discussion turned into an argument, and he'd said some pretty terrible, if not shocking, things. Already still sick from hypothermia, and a subsequent bout of pneumonia, Sam's stress levels reached an all time high and pushed him over the edge into a heart attack.

Having nearly lost his kid brother several times in one week, Dean swore that Sam would get the proper rest he needed to recover from his big brother's selfish stupidity. He'd put in a call to Pastor Jim Murphy who made the arrangements for the boys to spend two weeks at the Cranberry Hotel.

It had been a relaxing time, with Sam recovering nicely, no hunting, no research and no phone calls. In fact, Dean had never spent so much time doing absolutely nothing without getting bored. There was TV, of course, but mostly the boys sat in the library-bar talking to Patch and eating his delicious food.

It was the most peaceful time the boys had ever spent together in their lives, and it didn't once occur to them to ask why they hadn't seen any other guests for the entire two weeks.

But they'd both left the place with the feeling that they were forgetting something. Something to do with their father, Sam had been sure. There was the sense that John Winchester had been there at some point, though Patch had laughed long and loud at the notion. Eventually, the brothers had managed to convince themselves that it was only because Patch bore a small resemblance to their dad, and left the subject well alone after that.

Neither of them had discussed it since, and had never once raised the matter with their father, right up to the day he died, something Sam and Dean had recently come to regret yet could never explain why.

But seeing Patch now, Dean found the resemblance to his father so strong it was hovering on the border between comforting and downright disturbing. Maybe his mind was playing tricks on him, too much grief, worry and fatigue…

"Let's get the boy inside," said Patch, gently, eyeing him with concern. "Ready?"

Swallowing hard, Dean let go of Sam's hand and nodded.

Ten minutes later, Sam was safely ensconced in a proper bed, wrapped in warm sheets and soft blankets. Dean finished tucking in the bed covers by Sam's feet, and glanced around.

The place was almost a mirror image of the Cranberry Hotel, but without the upper stories. Dark oak furnishings, heavy red drapes, a solid bar surrounded by fine wines and whisky, leather sofas placed either side of a large stone fireplace. There was a fire blazing away that let out a comforting light and warmth, and a grandfather clock quietly ticked away the seconds, minutes, and hours, making the place feel homely and peaceful.

Sam's bed was situated with the head board against the wall, opposite and a few meters away from the fire. When the kid woke up he'd be able to gaze into the flames and enjoy the heat.

Unlike the hotel, the whole cabin was open plan and seemed far taller on the inside than the outside would have you believe, with its high, sloping ceiling stretching away upwards. But it wasn't until Dean's narrowed gaze travelled upwards that he was truly able to grasp the height anomaly. The roof was startlingly far away.

_Either I'm more tired than I thought, or this is some weird as shit magic, _he thought, privately.

Just like the hotel, the cabin resembled a library, with leather bound books and journals crammed on floor to ceiling, dark oak shelves that lined the walls. A tall ladder on wheels resided at the far end, stretching away upwards, its top entrenched in shadows and barely visible to the naked eye.

At the other end of the cabin were four curtained off areas, with more thick, red drapes, acting as room dividers. Dean could just catch a glimpse inside one where the curtains hadn't been quite drawn properly, and noticed a double bed made up and ready for use.

On further examination, he also spotted similar curtains on either side of Sam's bed, pushed back against the wall at this time, but were obviously to provide the poor kid with at least some privacy when he needed it.

On the far side of the cabin, opposite the main entrance and adjacent to the fireplace, lay a small room. The door was wide open, revealing a basin, toilet and bathtub, with a shower attachment screwed to the wall at one end.

It was probably the only walled off section of the entire cabin, which Dean was most relieved about. There were some things that needed more privacy than a mere curtain could provide a man with.

Dean returned to his appraisal of the main cabin.

Right at the back, and partitioned off from the rest of the cabin by a surrounding breakfast bar, was a decent sized functional kitchen area, decked out in black granite worktops and oak cabinets, and a window over the farmhouse style sink revealing a view of the foothills beyond the cabin. Almost hidden by a black roller blind was a small exterior door with a brass handle that matched all the handles on the kitchen cabinets.

A large, old fashioned stove dominated this particular section, and a black iron pot sat on top, bubbling away to itself. Dean felt his stomach growl with hunger when the scent of cooking lamb and mint wafted up his nose.

He couldn't remember the last time he'd had any food, but it must have been a while ago because his gut was plenty pissed at him about it.

He glanced at Sam again and leaned over to smooth a hand through the kid's hair.

"I'll be right back, ok? Just getting something to eat," he smiled when Sam, still out for the count, rolled his head slightly towards him. "Don't worry. I won't even be leaving the room, so no going anywhere without me, ya hear?"

"Here, homemade lambs stew. My Ma's recipe," Patch appeared beside Dean, literally from out of nowhere. He was holding out a steaming earthenware bowl, a matching plate with some delicious smelling freshly baked bread, and a large spoon. "You must be hungry."

Dean accepted the offering, gratefully, and thanked the guy before delving straight in.

"My God," he whispered after the first bite. "This is amazing!"

Patch grinned. "Plenty more where that comes from, so help yourself."

He headed on over to the kitchen and ladled out a bowl for his own consumption.

"Bobby can get his own when he's finished chopping wood," he explained, and moved across the room on silent feet to relax in front of the fireplace. Keeping watch over the brothers, perhaps, but also maintaining a respectful distance.

Dean nodded, mouth full of the meaty stew, and looked around as he chewed and swallowed. "This is quite some place you got here."

Patch grinned. "Yep, home sweet home. Always carry it with me," then he tilted his head to one side and regarded Dean for a moment. "Much like yourself, eh?"

Dean laughed, softly. "I guess so. Though, maybe 'home' carries us."

Patch nodded thoughtfully. "Hmm. Maybe."

A comfortable silence fell while both men ate their stew and Sam slept on.

"So, you own a chain or something?" asked Dean after he'd scraped his bowl clean, and felt tempted to lick up what was left.

Patch probably wouldn't have minded if he had, but Dean refrained. His momma had raised him with some manners, after all, and as his host had already pointed out, there was plenty more simmering away in the kitchen.

"Not exactly," said Patch, a tad mysteriously. He leaned forward, elbows on knees. "Don't you recognise it?"

Dean paused on his way to the kitchen for a refill, and frowned in confusion. "Well, it's real similar to the Cranberry on the inside..."

"Ah yes," Patch responded. "And just like humans, outward appearances can always be deceptive, but you can't really change what's on the inside."

"What are you saying?" said Dean, eyes narrowing a little. Patch had been nothing short of a mystery to the brothers since the day they first met him. Maybe Dean would finally get some answers. Intrigued, instead of refilling his bowl, he left it on the breakfast bar and sat back by Sam's bed. "That this place is human?" He smirked at the thought.

But Patch was deadly serious when he replied:

"No. Not human, exactly. But she _is_ alive, in the same way as Mother Nature is a living, breathing creature."

"I don't understand," said Dean, his head beginning to ache. "What's it got to do with the Cranberry Hotel in LA?"

"Simple," said Patch, eyes gleaming with friendly mischief. "This IS the Cranberry, my young friend. It's just no longer in LA."

Dean stared at him, thoroughly bewildered. "Huh?"

Patch chuckled loudly. "Just what I said. This is the Cranberry."

* * *

**TBC.**

**What is Patch talking about eh? What's with his house?**

**And what has he got up his sleeve?**

**And how's he going to help Sam?**

**Haha!**

**Want to find out **_**before **_**Halloween?**

**You know what to do…**

**Cheers darlings! **

**Oh, and for the smug bastard, thick as shit, GUEST reviewer of Ice Cold in LA who started lecturing me on the usual climate in LA - with extreme smugness, I might add - YES, I HAVE been there before, several times over the years. I was merely messing about with a FICTIONAL STORY, where the weather had taken a surprising turn! **

**You do know what a fictional story is, yes?**

**Or are you just another smug wanker who loves to pick holes? Well, don't bother 'cos I deleted your stupid review.**

**Did I happen to mention how smug this person was? Well, just in case...**

_**You smug tosser!**_

**But to the rest of my loyal readers: love ya!**

**Love and hugs,**

**ST xxx**


	5. Chapter 5

**Born of Ill Intent.**

**Please read warnings from chapter one.**

**Well done to those who referred to the Tardis in their comments. You pre-empted Dean you little geniuses.**

**Note to a certain idiot 'guest' reviewer from the last chapter: **

**what I write might well be trash but you were obviously reading it, **

** so what does that say about **_**YOU?**_

**And **_**four chapters in? **_**Dear oh dear…**

**Me thinks you doth protest too much.**

**Now, enough time wastage on the little fandom trolls.**

**On with the 'trash'…**

* * *

**Chapter Five.**

Dean huffed and scrubbed a hand down his face. "That still doesn't make any sense to me."

"In... o-other w-words," came a pained, breathy whisper from the bed. "The Cr-cranberry isn't a hotel. Not really."

If Patch was surprised that Sam had joined in with the conversation, he didn't show it. He just nodded, triumphantly. "Listen to your brother. He knows what he's talking about."

Dean swung around and stared between his now conscious brother and Patch.

"What? Don't tell me this place had a makeover at Walmart, then sprouted legs and _walked all the way out here?_"

Patch snorted, lightly. "In a manner of speaking. Just not Walmart. Not my kind of establishment. Too many weirdos frequent that place."

He sniffed and rubbed his hands together, absently. "It doesn't walk, so much as _cease to exist_ for a while, and travels through time and the ethereal planes…"

"Thank you Dr Who," said Dean, vaguely, no longer really listening because something more important had just dawned on him.

His brother _spoke._

"You're awake at last, huh?" he asked with a weak grin, because he really couldn't think of anything else to say.

Sam didn't answer, just stared up at him with a strange, blank expression that was beginning to weird Dean out.

"Sometimes, they used your face," Sam murmured, voice dull and emotionless.

"What?" Dean frowned in confusion at first. "Use my…"

It didn't take him long to figure out what his brother meant, and his face lost all colour. "Christ almighty..."

"Sometimes they used Dad's," Sam continued, oblivious to Dean's reaction. "That one really hurt, they made sure of it." He paused, seemingly lost in thought, then added: "The last time, it was the both of you. Together. Just about tore me in half. I wondered, then, if I was going to die."

He sounded so matter-of-fact, so detached, that Dean felt his heart slowly shattering to pieces.

"Jesus, Sammy..." Dean sank down onto the edge of the bed, head in hands, not sure he was ready to hear this but reluctant to let it go now he knew. His gut churned with hatred and anger, and his heart throbbed with remorse.

"I _wanted_ to die," Sam whispered, half to himself. "Was ready to go. Deserved to."

It was all Dean could do to bite back his sobs but tears escaped and rolled down his face. He licked his lips, tasting the salt water, sniffed, and tentatively reached out to grasp his brother's uninjured arm, relieved when Sam didn't flinch back or pull away.

"No," he told him through gritted teeth. "You don't deserve to die. You don't deserve _any_ of this! What those bastards did to you?" he shook his head and bit down on hard on his lower lip. "I had no choice but to kill them outright, but I'd have cheerfully ripped them apart limb from limb, if I'd had the chance. God knows, I might still. Dead or not."

Sam dropped his wary gaze to where Dean's hand rested against his arm.

"How can you say that after what they made you do?" He glanced up again, eyes no longer blank, but filled with despair and deep seated guilt.

Sam began to crumble before his brother's eyes.

"Dad's journal… I'm sorry, Dean," he said, voice trembling with grief. "So sorry. You shouldn't have had to do that, not because of me."

Dean stared at him. This whole scenario seemed so surreal and he was way out of his depth. On top of that, he was a little surprised that Sam would want to talk about this so soon after it happened, but then, that was Sam all over. Kid had always insisted on talking things out, like talking was some magic bullet therapy. After Dad died and Dean shut him out, heartbroken though he was himself, Sam never gave up, never turned away, kept doggedly by Dean's side, tried to work that magic bullet therapy, tried to make sure his big brother slept and ate properly, and watched his back.

In return, big brother had let Sam down, and the poor kid was blaming himself.

Sam needed to physically heal before they really got into the nitty gritty of his captivity, but he was carrying around way too much shame and guilt.

Something needed to be said.

"Sammy, I can't imagine what you went through," said Dean, hoarsely. "But what I do know is that two shifters violated you, beat the living shit out of you, tortured you just for the hell of it, and nearly drowned you. But you did nothing wrong, kid. I should have been there. I should have realised you weren't in the room when I got back that night, but I was too damn drunk to notice. Ok? This is on me." He gazed beseechingly at his little brother, and gave his arm a gentle squeeze. "As for Dad's journal? This may come as a surprise to you kiddo, but I'd have done the same to the Impala."

Sam's eyes widened. "huh?"

Dean nodded, gaze never leaving his. "I'd turn the world upside down if I had to, if it meant keeping you safe."

"But..." Sam blinked. "It was _Dad's hunting journal._"

Dean shrugged. "It's just a book, Sam. It's not you. Or Dad." He smiled a little. "It's not a human being, just the summary of a hunter's life. And we both have it memorised, virtually word for word. Pretty sad, if you think about it."

"Yeah," Sam answered, after a pause. "I guess so." Then he looked closely at his brother. "The shifters told me neither of us was going to make it out alive. That's why you threw it in the lake, right?"

Dean paused.

"Yep." He nodded, and then said conviction. "Yes I did. I brought it with me 'cos Dad's journal wasn't worth losing you over, but if we both had to die then better it went with us. It's a choice I'd make again in a heartbeat, Sammy, so don't ever blame yourself."

Sam looked down at his broken arm. "She drugged me," he said, quietly. "In the bar, I mean, while you were playing pool. Didn't see it coming, turned away for just a second and I was screwed."

Dean slowly moved his hand to the side of Sam's head, still worried about spooking him, and brushed away a few locks of hair.

"I know what you're thinking," he told his brother. "So you can stop that right there."

Sam's gaze shot to Dean's. "What?"

Dean smiled, knowingly and sadly. "You're thinking that Dad would be ashamed of you, but you're wrong. The bitch drugged me too, but it just didn't take like it did with you." He sighed. "Hell, Sammy, even John Winchester was known to get caught out by rookie mistakes, and he'd be the first to admit it if he were here."

"Yeah, sure," Sam replied, bitterly. "Bet he didn't get fucked by a shifter wearing his brother's face!"

"Sam..." Dean tried not to flinch.

"Or how about a shifter morphing into a wendigo, huh?" Sam continued on as if he hadn't even heard him, his own voice growing louder and shakier. "Was he ever tied to a bed, raped and beaten by a couple of monsters? Held down, unable to call for help, unable to f-fight b-back...?"

Dean watched in dismay as his brother broke down in desperate, painful sobs, and this time when he reached out for him, Sam tried to scramble away, nearly wrenching the IV from his arm.

"Sammy..."

"Don't!" Sam suddenly screamed out, arms flailing. "Please don't! Please... no..."

Patch appeared on the other side of the bed in an instant, and laid a gentle hand on the crown of Sam's head. The result was instant and incredible.

"And relax..." the Irishman whispered, softly.

Dean watched in amazement as Sam's panic subsided immediately, body going limp, eyes sliding from wide to half closed, as though he'd been drugged up to the gills again.

"Fuck me," said Dean, absently, when Sam blinked sleepily and smiled up at him.

"S-sorrrry..." he slurred, and blinked again.

Dean's own responding smile was a little shaky, but he was so relieved to see his brother calming down again.

"Nothing to be sorry for, Sammy," he said, softly.

Patch gently ran his hand around Sam's head, whispering something under his breath, then settled it back on top again.

"You're safe now, Sam," he told the youngster. "You can sleep some more if you want to."

"'Kay," Sam whispered and closed his eyes.

Patch watched him in silence for a few minutes, one hand on Sam's head, the other holding his uninjured wrist, checking his pulse. Sensing the older brother's barely controlled patience, Patch finally moved away from the bed and motioned for Dean to join him.

"He'll rest for a few hours," he told Dean, and guided him towards the front entrance. "But in the meantime, let's get some fresh air."

Dean stared at the Irishman, then planted his feet and refused to budge. Patch seemed _different_ all of a sudden, a little edgy, perhaps, as though something had changed in the last few minutes.

It made Dean feel uneasy. He folded his arms, and narrowed his eyes.

"What's wrong?"

"Dean..."

"C'mon, Patch," Dean wouldn't let him try placation. "I might not have known you too long, but I can tell you're hiding something. Now spill!"

Patch turned and studied Dean's face with a soft smile. "Can't hide _anything_ from you, eh? You're just like your _Da_ in that respect." He opened the door and slipped through, with Dean reluctantly following after him. "Very well, young Dean. But let's get Bobby; I suspect he's already figured it out but he needs to hear this too, and it saves me having to say it twice."

"Say what twice?" Bobby appeared on the veranda, covered in dirt and sweat, and leaned his axe against the cabin's outer wall. His eyes flickered between Dean and Patch, and he raised an eyebrow at them. "Someone want to tell me what's going on here?"

Patch sighed and sat down on the swing. "To put it bluntly, Sam is still very much in mortal danger," he said, then glanced up at the other two men. "Just not in a way you'd expect."

Dean and Bobby glanced at each other.

"Okaaay," Dean murmured and shifted his stance a little. "You wanna clarify just what this 'way' is? Or do I have to guess?"

Patch shook his head. "I doubt you could guess this one, boyo, believe me," rubbing a hand over the back of his neck, looking uncharacteristically worried, Patch winced and came out with it. "Sam's... uh... in a gestational state right now."

Dean looked at him blankly, while Bobby blew out a long, slow breath.

Patch glanced from one to the other. "You see what I'm saying? He's up the duff... knocked up... in a sense, he's _pregnant._" He stared at Dean, gauging his reaction.

"Shit," Bobby muttered aloud, hand over his mouth.

Then, to Dean's horror, Patch announced: "And if the shifter was wearing your skin when it happened, that makes you more or less the father."

And if the circumstances hadn't been so serious then the look of slowly dawning horror on Dean's face might well have been hilarious.

As it was, Patch and Bobby had to settle for catching him before he hit the deck in a dead faint.

* * *

**TBC.**

**So, anybody reeling from this?**

**Feeling a bit sick?**

'**Cos I bloody well was when I thought it up!**

**My word, I have a sick and twisted mind.**

**Haha!**

**So what next? How will they tell Sam, and how will he react?**

**Wanna know?**

**Really, **_**really**_** wanna know?**

**Go on then. Click that button…**

**Cheers guys!**

**And to the **_**other **_**guest reviewers, who went out of their way to NOT be a smug tosser:**

***passes over fresh homemade bread and stew***

**Love and hugs,**

**ST xxx**


	6. Chapter 6

**Born of Ill Intent.**

**Please read warnings from chapter one.**

** Apologies for the later posting due to illness.**

**Many thanks for your words of comfort during this distressing time, and for all the wonderful reviews I've had so far. I refer, of course, to the reviews that were actually relevant to this story, and not the one which didn't even mention it.**

* * *

**Chapter Six.**

"H-how?" Dean stammered, some hours later, after he was over the initial shock – though, to describe it as _over_ was a bit of a stretch. He blinked slowly, and absently accepted the crystal tumbler of scotch pressed into his hand. "I mean, how's that even possible?"

Patch shrugged and sat down beside him on the wooden veranda, while Bobby retrieved a woollen blanket from indoors to place around Dean's shivering form.

_Poor kid's in shock, _thought Bobby, not feeling all that steady himself, truth be told. It was one thing to have suspicions, but to have those suspicions confirmed…

_Christ knows how his brother's gonna take this._

"To be honest, I'm not sure how it works, but from what Bobby told me on the phone before you came here, I'd say Sam's abductors were no ordinary shifters," Patch poured himself and Bobby another dram of scotch.

Dean frowned. "Why dya say that?"

Patch nodded and patted his shoulder. "Shifters are rarely known to force themselves on their victims, preferring to take them willingly by imitating someone close to them. It's all part of their sick games. That they weren't playing 'nicely' this time was the first clue, but I wasn't _entirely_ sure what we were dealing with until Sam mentioned them taking the guise of a wendigo. Now, as a general rule, shifters can't do that. They can take human or animal form, no problem. They just need access to the genetic material and… well, Bob's your uncle. But monsters? No can do."

He clicked his tongue, for the first time showing just how worried he really was.

"However, there is a separate species altogether that can not only imitate humans and animals, but also rugarus, werewolves, vampires, and, of course, our old friend the wendigo."

Patch took a sip of his drink. "They're called Polymorphics. Main things to note about them? They can turn into absolutely _anything; _undead, dead or alive, doesn't matter, so long as the original subject is organic, or at least used to be. They've even been known to take on fictional forms, though no one's ever found out how. Could be a movie memory thing from one of their victims, I suppose, but I'm just clutching at straws here."

Patch took another swallow of whisky to clear his throat.

"But the other thing that really sets them apart from your ordinary shifter?" He paused and glanced at the other two hunters. "Ya see, they cannot reproduce among themselves; they need a human or animal surrogate to breed by implantation, and the foetus takes on some of the surrogate's DNA." Patch swallowed hard, dreading the next part. "But… male _or_ female surrogates will do. They aren't fussy."

Dean's jaw dropped. "You're kidding me!"

"Nope, wish I was," said Patch, looking troubled. "From an evolutionary standpoint it's a huge advantage to the species because it allows for a far wider gene pool, I believe."

Bobby eyed him in disbelief; he'd heard of polymorphics but never seen one, and his knowledge of them was severely limited. He gestured for Patch to continue.

"Like normal human children, the offspring retains all the characteristics of its human parents, such as eye and hair colour, etc. But they also inherit the polymorphic's abilities to shift. And if the polymorphic was wearing the skin of another human, you for example, Dean, then that human also becomes a parent, because like all shifters it needs your genetic information to form your skin in the first place. Of course, there's a chance it could be John's, but somehow I doubt that given his recent death. Gut feeling tells me it's yours – for the greater mind-fuck value alone - but we won't know for certain until the baby's born..."

Dean looked like he was about to be sick. "Uh… wha… hmmmm… _excuse me!"_

He jumped off the veranda and dashed to the edge of the forest.

Bobby and Patch suddenly found the sky thoroughly interesting, and shut out the retching and gagging noises going on in the background by keeping up conversation.

"Male pregnancy, huh?" said Bobby, circling a finger round the top of his tumbler. "Damn. Every time I think I've seen it all, something all brand new comes along and wipes the floor with me."

Patch smiled, sympathetically. "Polymorphics aren't common, to be fair. There've been no recorded poly sightings in well over five hundred years, having been virtually hunted into extinction." He frowned, suddenly. "I'm a little surprised they showed up here, in fact. They're natives of Romania, and normally keep a low profile, but then," his eyes darkened. "There's been a lot of shite come crawling out of the woodwork since yellow eyes re-emerged."

Bobby nodded. "Sure has. No doubt news of John's passing is making the rounds."

Patch smirked, humourlessly. "Oh, don't you worry about that. The very second his heart stopped most, if not all, of the demon world knew about it, and then some."

Bobby eyed the Irishman, sizing him up. "So, you know about Sam."

"Oh yes," Patch replied, sadly. "John told me all about that, about the other children, and the demon army."

"And?" Bobby pressed, curious to know what the other man thought.

Patch took a deep breath. "I have to say, I don't think it's going to be as simple as all that. None of this is will be cut and dried. I'm talking about grey areas that will test both brothers; their love and loyalty, their faith, in each other as well as God himself." Patch looked over at Bobby. "But they'll have to trick Sam into whatever it is they have planned, because he's not stupid and he won't fall to their side easy. He's a good kid, and though he might make mistakes, he's not evil. He's been touched by it, sure, but he's not intrinsically bad. I'd stake my own life on it. No, they'll try to use his own good nature and fears against him."

They both went quiet when Dean came back, wiping his mouth and still looking rather green.

"You ok, son?" asked Bobby, getting to his feet.

"Yeah, yeah," said Dean, looking anything but. He stared at the wooden veranda, hands on hips, and chewing on his lower lip, then his head snapped up to meet Patch's gaze. "How long have we got?"

Bobby blinked, but Patch seemed to realise what he was asking.

"The gestational period varies, but five weeks is usually the average time for it to develop in the gut cavity. Despite that, Sam's gonna be hungry. A _lot_. So I'll make sure to keep the cabin stocked with food."

Dean hissed in a breath between his teeth. "And Sammy was… uh… _impregnated_… what? 'Bout a week ago, give or take? That barely gives us a month to find out how to help him," he fixed Patch with a knowing look. "'Cos I'm guessing it ain't gonna be as simple as cutting that thing out of him, right?"

Patch nodded. "'Fraid not. The child…"

"Don't call it that!" Dean snapped, unnecessarily. "It's not a child, and it sure as hell ain't mine or Sam's!"

Patch didn't miss a beat. "The offspring will fight back at the first indication of an abortive procedure, probably taking Sam's life in the process."

Dean nodded, frustration and fear oozing from every pore. "You mean it'll claw Sammy to death from the inside out."

There was silence while everyone took that in.

"So… what then?" asked Bobby, incredulously. "We wait until he goes into labour?"

Patch rubbed at his eyes. "That's about the size of it."

"Fine," said Dean, with renewed determination. "So we wait for the birth, then kill the evil son of a bitch once it's out."

"That could kill Sam in itself," Patch protested. "In case you hadn't noticed, he's not exactly built for it. We'll need a doctor to perform surgery."

Dean frowned. "But you said…"

"So long as we wait until the eleventh hour, as it were, and everything is in order and in its place, with Sam fully sedated, the… _foetus _shouldn't put up a fight." Patch leaned back against the cabin wall, looking grim. "All you have to decide is what to tell him."

Dean looked wrecked. "I-I don't know," he mumbled.

"Like it or not, Dean," said the Irishman, softly. "That unborn shifter is as much yours and Sam's offspring as it is the polymorphic's. And even though it has to die once it's born, Sam has a right to know."

He stood up, brushed himself off and gently squeezed Dean's shoulder. "But I'll leave that up to you, son. You have my sympathies, 'cos it's not a decision anyone should have to make."

Dean said nothing to that, just turned away and walked back out into the forest, with both men staring after him, worriedly.

"How in hell are those two boys gonna get through this?" murmured Bobby, watching as Dean disappeared from view.

Patch patted his shoulder. "Call William Barnet. Fill in him and see what he suggests. In the meantime, I'm gonna make sure Sam's comfortable."

Bobby shook his head. "Like he hasn't got enough on his plate right now."

"Now that," said Patch, smiling contentedly, "is something I can deal with. I've already got him relaxed and calm. Shouldn't take much more."

Bobby's gaze snapped to the Irishman. "You ain't gonna wipe his memory or something, are ya? Jim Murphy told me what you did to their food last time they ran into you..."

"No, of course not," said Patch, earnestly. "No memory wiping, and as I said to John when he asked me, I hate having to do that. It's not right, but I could see why he insisted at the time. No, I intend to _soften_ the memory of Sam's captivity a little, just enough so he feels less overwhelmed by it all."

"Is that wise?" asked Bobby, anxiously. "I mean, he's bound to be feeling all kinds of shit about what happened to him, but you're talking about suppressing it. It'll be like an even bigger mind fuck to the poor kid, someone just wandering in at will and altering..."

"Nonono," Patch protested with his hands up, as if warding off Bobby's concerns. "Nothing gets altered or changed. The only thing that I'll be touching is Sam's perception of _when_ it happened. It'll feel to Sam like it happened a long time ago, but he'll understand, logically, that it was fairly recent. Believe me, Bobby, it'll help him to deal with it all, up here," he tapped his head. "Where it _really_ _hurt_s. And he needs all the help he can get right now."

Bobby thought about it for a moment, then sighed. "You're right. We ain't exactly got the time for group therapy or trauma counselling, so I guess a little mojo weaving is all we have left."

Patch winked. "You know it makes sense, boyo."

As they headed inside in order to give Dean some privacy, it hadn't escaped either man's attention that they had studiously avoided using the word rape throughout the entire conversation.

* * *

Sam gazed into the flames from the comfort of his bed, feeling safe, warm and languid. He knew something bad had happened to him, knew he'd been raped, but right then it felt as though something was cushioning him from the memories. For the time being, he felt free of it all. He hoped it would last.

However, as relaxed as he was, it was time to get up and move about before he planted roots. Sam hated feeling restless, and movement was the key to resolving it. Even if he only made it as far as the sofa.

He glanced down at his injured arm, the IV lines, and the oxygen tube snaking away from his face. The pain meds were good, he reflected, probably morphine because he couldn't feel a thing. But it still seemed odd that there was little to no discomfort after everything he'd been through, and he still couldn't figure out why he was here, in Patch's metaphysical cabin in the mountains, that sometimes doubled as a hotel in California. Ridiculous.

Something nearby growled deeply, demandingly, and Sam's grin emerged, lazy with sleep.

Well, what dya know? He thought, sniffing the air.

Who'd have guessed he'd be feeling hungry? But something sure smelled good.

Sam pushed back the covers and cautiously shifted his legs until they dangled over the edge of the bed. He carefully removed the oxygen tube and tested the floor with the soles of his feet, encouraged when the wooden boards didn't try to eat him – because nothing would have surprised him at this point - and slowly lifted himself up on his good arm.

By the time he was upright, he was panting and dizzy from the effort, sweat pouring down his face and soaking his tee shirt. He was half temped to abandon the food hunt through sheer exhaustion, but his stomach growled again in protest at the notion, and so Sam struggled onwards, shuffling towards the end of the bed, and pulling his IV pole along with him.

It was when he looked down that he noticed the ever so slight roundedness to his gut. Frowning, he used the palm of his good hand to test it, and gasped when something seemed to move underneath.

He didn't get time to freak out, however, which was just as well, because the cabin door swung open to admit Bobby Singer and Patch Jenkins, who stopped and stared at the youngest Winchester.

"What in God's name are you doing outta bed, kid?" demanded Bobby with a scowl.

Sam immediately froze, wide-eyed, like a deer caught in the headlamps, and licked his lips nervously.

His stomach growled again, and Sam immediately forgot about the strange bump as the desperate need for sustenance seized control.

"I-I was just looking for some food," he explained, and reached out to the bed post to steady himself. "And... and I wanted to sit by the fire. Sorry."

Bobby's face softened. "You're hungry, huh?"

Sam nodded and looked away, embarrassed.

Patch jumped in at this point. "I'll serve up some stew, young Sam, if Bobby could help you to the couch...?" he gave Bobby a gentle nudge towards Sam and moved over to the kitchen.

Bobby knew exactly what Patch was up to but made no comment. Instead, he wrapped a gentle arm around Sam's waist, let the kid lean on him, and dragged the IV pole along with them across the room.

"You sure you don't wanna sit up in bed?" he asked, anxiously. "You might be more comfortable..."

Sam shook his head immediately. "N-need to move."

Patch watched him out the corner of his eye as he dished up more stew. Knowing what lay ahead, he'd forgone the usual sized bowls and opted for a huge salad dish, which made Bobby's eyes widen when he saw it.

Sam, however, didn't seem to notice and just fell on it the moment he was settled in front of the fireplace.

The room was silent apart from the crackle of the logs and Sam's eager slurping and chewing noises.

It was like feeding time at the zoo, thought Bobby, utterly amazed at the change in Sam. The kid never had a particularly large appetite, even when he was growing up, but right now Sam could out-compete his big brother with little effort.

Mere moments later, Sam held out his empty bowl, mouth still full, cheeks bulging with food, eyes desperately pleading for more. When he shivered suddenly, Bobby pulled a thick woollen throw off the back of the sofa and tucked it around the kid.

"Alright, Sam," said Patch, kindly, taking the bowl and stood up with the intention of fetching more stew, but he stopped suddenly.

Bobby noticed that the Irishman was staring over Sam's shoulder, and turned his head.

Unnoticed, Dean had quietly crept back in from the cold half way through Sam's fierce feeding binge. He stood by the door, a thin layer of snow dusting his hair and shoulders, face pale, his eyes haunted with fear and sadness.

"Sammy..." he mumbled and took a faltering step towards his little brother, at a loss for words. Supposing the kid rejected him. The shifters had raped him wearing Dean's skin. Would Sam back away and freak out again once he knew the full story of what they did to him?

Dean's heart thudded with anxiety.

Sam turned his head and swallowed his last mouthful hurriedly.

"Dean, I'm ok ya know," he said, softly and with a self-conscious smile. "Well, I'm alive, at any rate. Best be thankful for small mercies, huh?"

Sam's voice was so soft and kind that Dean found himself blinking back tears.

"Yeah," he whispered, shakily.

The older brother stared at Sam for a long moment, then crossed the room and carefully cupped the back of the kid's neck.

"Yeah, we should," he said, and touched his forehead to Sam's. "I know things have been shitty lately. I've been shutting you out, wallowing in my own grief and generally being an asshole." He sniffed loudly, and stroked the back of Sam's head as the anguish of the last few months came pouring out. "I'm sorry so, kiddo. I'm so sorry I hit you. I had no right to do that. He was your Dad too. And I should never have sided with Gordon against you... he hurt you..."

"Dean, stop it! Please," Sam shook his head slightly. "You got nothing to apologise for, dude."

"Bullshit!" said Dean with feeling. "I got everything to apologise for. And I'll tell you what else: I'm here now, Sammy. I'm with you all the way, no matter what happens."

Sam drew back, eyes narrowed with suspicion. "Why do I get the feeling there's more to that statement than meets the eye?"

Dean instantly looked like a kid caught with his hand in the cookie jar, and turned his gaze on the older men for assistance.

Bobby cast Patch a subtle questioning glance, and received a nod in return. The mojo-stew was working. Sam's emotional recovery had been given a boost, for now at least.

But the kid was already asking questions.

Patch rocked back and forth on his heels. "He'll soon figure it out for himself, Dean," he said. "Changes are already taking place."

"What changes?" Sam glanced between the three men, worriedly. "What's he talking about, Dean?"

Dean huffed out a breath. "You still hungry, Sam?"

"Uh... yeah?"

Big brother eyed him, closely. "And that's normal for you?"

Sam thought about it for a second. "Well, not exactly, but I've been sedated for days, right?" Then he sat up straight, hand flying to the bump under his tee-shirt. "Wait! Uh, guys? Has _this_ got anything to do with it?"

He lifted his shirt, and three pairs of eyes widened.

Dean audibly gulped. "Shit," he breathed, and his already sickly appearance took a turn for the worse.

Sam glanced from one man to the other. "Well?" he demanded. "Has it?"

His brother dropped down next to him on the sofa. "Ok, here goes..."

* * *

**TBC.**

**The Red Dwarf fans amongst you will be exclaiming that I nicked 'polymorphic' from the episode 'Polymorph'. **

**Yes I damn well did. *grins cheekily***

**So, Sam's got one hell of an appetite on him, and it's only going to increase. His baby bump is showing, and Dean has the unfortunate task of explaining it all to him.**

**Poor kid's in for yet another rough ride…**

**Want more? Really?**

**Clickety, click away…**

**Love ST xxx**


	7. Chapter 7

**Born of Ill Intent.**

**Please read the warnings from chapter one.**

**Many thanks for all your kind messages. Hope you don't mind me not replying to your reviews this time, but I'm still not feeling too good.**

**Thought you might prefer the next chapter instead.**

* * *

**Chapter Seven.**

_Thirty minutes later..._

"Oh God..." Sam muttered, and threw up loudly and violently for the fifth time.

Though, in Bobby's opinion, Sam appeared to be handling this far better than his brother. While Dean was worrying himself into a gastric ulcer about the emotional and physical ramifications of all this, Sam was busy freaking out over the fact he was a guy, and a guy on course to giving _birth, _possibly to his _brother's kid_. It was like a complete role reversal.

The grizzled hunter listened discreetly from the kitchen.

"I'm so sorry, kiddo," Dean repeated, gently rubbing comforting circles on his brother's back. "We'll figure something out, I promise."

Sam leaned back from the toilet bowl and took a steadying breath.

"Like what, exactly?" he moaned, softly. "Monster adoption agencies don't exist, dude, and if they did I don't think hunters would be allowed anywhere near them."

"This is serious, Sam..." Dean snapped, but Sam rolled his eyes.

"You think I don't _know_ that?" he replied, tartly. "But right now, I'm still trying to get my head round the fact that I've been used to spawn sheer, deadly evil... and that my brother could be one of the fathers! Just how fucked up is _that_, huh?" He blinked. "Sooo wish I hadn't said that out loud..." and threw himself back over the bowl again with a loud and heartfelt "_Brrruuuuuuuulllleeeecckkkkk..." _ that made Dean both wince and dry-retch in sympathy.

"Just how much of your mojo did you use on that kid, anyways?" asked Bobby out the corner of his mouth.

Patch shrugged. "Probably more than was strictly necessary." He broke out into a wide grin. "But hey! It won't kill him, and if it keeps his sense of humour intact, we're on a winner! It's a well known fact that laughter helps cure all ills."

"Really!" Bobby glared at him. "So tell me, Dr Giggles, does laughter cure labour pains too?"

A distant "_Br-br-brrrruuuuuuulleeeeeeckkkkk...!" _ came from the bathroom.

Without missing a beat, Patch replied: "No more than it cures morning sickness, but at least he's not choking to death on his own vomit."

This was no morning sickness, Sam reflected as he gagged and spat bile into the pan. This was his reaction to the news that he was _pregnant._

Up the duff.

A bun in the oven...

_This can't be happening!_

"Easy, Sammy," Dean murmured, still rubbing his back. "The doc's on his way. Bobby says he'll be here in a few days or so. Maybe a week."

Sam spat out more bile and groaned.

"Really?" he said, more than a shade sarcastically. "Why can't Patch transport the Tardis any damn closer to the hospital, I want this_ out, _Dean_, NOW!"_

Dean sighed. He'd asked Patch that very same question not so long ago.

"I know you do, kiddo, but it doesn't work that way," he said, wearily. "Besides, the fact is you have to carry to full term without _any _unnecessary risks, and the place can't just up and move at will. There have to be spells, incantations and, apparently, he...uh, he kind of has to fill out a flight plan for the damn thing."

The whole process could take anything up to a month, depending on the distance required and the amount of supernatural traffic. A flight plan was essential for anyone who regularly fast tracked in the ethereal planes (no pun intended), partly in order to stay out of the way of the reapers who worked there, but primarily because running over an already pissed off spirit with a large, high speed house was ill advised. All in all, Dean wondered if it was really worth the trouble, but Patch clearly thought so. Apparently, not only did it make dodging the IRS a walk in the metaphysical park, but it also made guns and ammo smuggling cheaper and more efficient for hunters. The ATF had been after Patch for years, but had never once caught the crafty Irishman in the act.

Sam groaned again, and slumped against the bathroom wall, hands covering his bump, which had grown noticeably bigger in the last few minutes.

"Oh God," he mumbled with his eyes closed, rolling his head slowly from side to side in despair. "Oh God, oh God, oh God, I can't believe this is happening to me."

Dean crouched down low, and cupped the side of Sam's sweaty face.

"It'll be fine, Sam," he said. "As soon as it's out, we can gank the thing, do a salt and burn, go back to normal and everything will be ok. We can move on and forget about this."

Sam opened his eyes and stared at Dean in disbelief. "You really think... _seriously?!_"

He sat upright. "Forget? Move on? Jesus Christ Dean! Do you not understand what's going on here? _I'm fucking impregnated with your seed!"_

"Whoa, ok, just take it easy, Sammy," said Dean, trying to placate his angry brother, but Sam wasn't having any of it. The kid's emotions were all over the place, being pushed and pulled any which way, much like a fart in a hurricane.

Sam's eyes were red with anger and fatigue, and any sense of humour had long since faded.

"Stop telling me to take it easy!_" _he all but screamed, and raised a shaky finger to poke at Dean's chest. _"_I've been kidnapped and butt raped by polymorphic shifters, and now I'm a guy who's fucking pregnant_... you try taking it fucking easy, you insufferable fucking moron..."_

When a large, gentle hand reached in through the bathroom door and descended onto Sam's head, he instantly went limp, head lolling on his shoulders.

Patch, leaning in through the doorway, smiled apologetically at Dean, who was looking rather stunned in the wake of Sam's outburst.

"Take no notice, boyo," he said, kindly. "It's just the hormones and general panic talking. Chances are he'll be right as rain again when he wakes up."

Dean scrubbed a hand down his face. "Great," he muttered. "And this is before all the _real _fun begins."

* * *

The next two or three days saw a few more surprising changes in Sam, not least of which was a completely bruise-free face. A dumper truck's worth of food administered at just the right time diverted the course of a possible major bitch fit, but mostly the kid was fairly content in between the bouts of panic related vomiting.

Just less than a week after that, following a long, peaceful, nightmare-free slumber, he awoke bright eyed and bushy tailed. He hopped out of bed, pulled out all the IV lines that Bobby had carefully reattached just after Patch had sent him to sleep, and began stretching his hamstrings.

"Sammy, get back in bed!" Dean growled in annoyance, for the fourth time. "I mean it! You're not well enough to be up and about!"

"I'm fine, Dean!" Sam answered, excitedly, and started jogging on the spot. "See?"

"You puked your guts up again yesterday!" Dean's glared intensified when the kid dropped and started doing sit ups. "Stop that shit right now! You've got broken ribs, for Christ sake!"

"But I feel ok, now," said Sam, and flipped over for a set of push-ups.

In fact, after declaring that all his aches and pains, swellings, bruising and, even more surprisingly, broken ribs _and _arm, had all melted away, Sam went for a staggering twenty mile _sprint_ through the mountains, all the while ignoring the multiple shouts of "You shouldn't be doing that in your condition!"

Dean, wanting to keep an eye on his brother, had given up after the first eight miles, figuring the kid was obviously enjoying a fresh batch of bitch-hormones that morning, and headed back to the cabin. He collapsed in front of the fireplace, almost comatose, feet blistered up, red-faced and out of breath.

"What the hell?" he panted and desperately pawed at Bobby's arm when a large steaming mug of coffee was extended his way. "Seriously! What the hell? He's at death's door for days, and now he's Steve fucking Austin? Shit, dude! Kid's gonna kill me!"

Patch wandered on over and sat on the opposite sofa, looking somewhat sheepish.

"Yep," he said. "I've been going through some ancient hunter journals, and there's a few more things I found out about this kind of pregnancy..."

Bobby covered his eyes, already dreading the worst.

* * *

Dean listened in growing astonishment to Patch's claims.

"Fuck me!" he exclaimed, not for the first since they'd arrived in the mountains.

Bobby scratched his head, feeling equally bewildered. "What you're saying is, so long as Sam provides enough nutrients to the polymorphic growing inside him, he will also benefit from the relationship. Those hormones making him hungrier than a grizzly bear, and helping him heal, get stronger and faster? Those aren't his, are they?"

"Nope. All polymorphic hormones," said Patch, rubbing his chin. "It's in the best interests of the foetus to keep its surrogate healthy and able to defend him or herself, especially since the birth can be quite harrowing. It needs Sam to survive at least that far, but after the infant is removed from him? All bets are off. Any bond that might have developed, any feelings of affection towards Sam will likely be severed, as far as the books say, and it will turn on him. It's what makes polymorphics so dangerous, as well as excellent at combat and survival; from the very moment they're born they have the ability and instinct to attack and eat the human surrogate, leaving no trace behind and effectively covering its tracks."

Dean stared at him. "Shit."

Bobby quirked an eyebrow. "You mentioned 'bond', and 'feelings'," he leaned forward, face filled with concern. "Are you saying that Sam could bond with that damn thing? Could develop sentiment towards it? Come to _care _about it?"

Patch looked troubled.

"It's never been proven, like most of these rarities, but I suspect it's more than possible," he finally answered, but Dean had news for him.

"It's already happened," he said, sadly. "That's partly why Sammy's so happy and energetic right now." He glanced at Bobby. "It's not just the hormones. He's already fallen in love with it."

"Which is understandable," said Patch, softly. "Most parents do, under normal circumstances. And Sam seems to be further along than the literature suggests he should be at this stage, so his 'feelings' will be more developed."

Dean closed his eyes in despair, instantly regretting what he'd said to Sam during his first few vomit marathons.

Bobby scratched the back of his neck and sighed. "Well, shaft me sideways with an eggplant if this ain't the weirdest fucking case I've ever come across."

As predicted, on return from his expedition into the mountains, Sam proclaimed he was hungry, and his appetite was certainly something to behold. With a wide eyed Bobby and Dean watching on in amazement, Sam consumed six packs of grilled bacon, three stacks of chocolate chip pancakes, an eight-egg cheese and ham omelette, and a whole loaf of toasted bread.

Then, after guzzling a gallon of milk, he chomped away at an entire tree of oranges and three whole pineapples.

Patch was gazing mournfully into the now empty fridge. "Well, I'd best head off for more supplies or there'll be no breakfast for the rest of us."

Sam's face reddened. "Sorry, guys," he said, guiltily, and hung his head. "I didn't think..."

Patch thumped him heartily on the back, almost dislodging him from the stool.

"Not to worry, laddie," he said and winked at the others. "You need to eat. Got to keep your strength up."

But he threw a grim nod Dean's way when Sam wasn't looking. He and Bobby were heading out for groceries, while Dean was going to have a little talk with his brother about parenthood in general and baby-shifters in particular.

* * *

Dean watched Sam shovelling huge handfuls of grapes and raspberries into his mouth, and grimaced when some of the juice squirted out over the kitchen counter.

"Hey Sammy?"

"Hmmm?"

"Why don't we go sit down by the fire for a bit, huh?"

Sam shot him an instantly suspicious glance and Dean wondered, sadly, if the kid even noticed how his hands moved to cover and protect his bump.

"Why?" Sam asked, eyeing Dean in the same way he'd eye a potential baby snatcher.

Dean held out his hands, hoping he'd appear harmless enough that Sam would trust him, just for a little while.

"I think we need to talk, ok? Nothing more." He moved a little closer, slow and non-threatening, keeping his voice soft and gentle. "Can we do that, Sammy? Please? I'm worried about you."

Patch had been quite specific in his advice before he and Bobby left on their supply run. Keep calm at all times; don't give the kid any reason to get angry or scared. Nobody believed that Sam would harm Dean at all if he got too riled or felt threatened, but it paid to be cautious. Sam's emotions were incredibly fragile right now, with the pregnancy speeding along at an unnatural rate, but his physical strength and dominance was getting damn scary.

There was an Empire State Building's worth of chopped pine logs outside the cabin to prove it.

Sam stared at Dean, eyes so wary of him that another tiny little crack seemed to make its way into the older brother's heart.

But then Sam nodded, and shuffled awkwardly over to the sofas. Dean felt himself relax a little, and breathed out. The first small hurdle taken.

Only another big fucking bastard sonofabitch hurdle to try and leap over now!

The brothers sat next to each other, both a little nervous in their own way, and Dean took another breath.

"Sam..."

"Stop," said Sam, softly, gazing down at his hands. "I know what you're going to say. And I agree."

Dean's double take was so fast his head nearly twisted right off his neck. "Huh?"

Sam glanced up at him, eyes now sad and scared. "It has to die, I know that."

The ensuing silence was filled with the shifting of logs in the fire place, but the crackling of sparks soon died as it settled into a steady burn once more.

Dean gazed back at him helplessly. "I'm sorry, dude. I know how hard this is gonna be for you."

Sam sighed, heart heavy with deep regret. "No matter how I feel about this... _being_ inside of me, we can't afford to let it live." He blinked rapidly and pulled himself up to his full height while sitting down. His voice suddenly became strong and uncompromising. "I know that, technically, it's my... _our _child, but it's also a dangerous shifter. We can't allow our sentiments over rule and let it loose on the world. I understand what needs to be done."

Dean regarded him for a second, eyes now narrowed. "Do you, Sam? I mean, really? You know that as soon as that child is born, Bobby is gonna take it away, deal with it, and we'll never see it again. You're ok with that?" He leaned in, head tilted inquiringly. "'Cos somehow I find that very hard to believe. I know you, kid. This has to be killing you, but if you can't be honest with me, then I can't help you."

Sam flinched.

And _there _he is, Dean thought with some relief.

"Don't." Sam whispered on a sob. "Pl-please don't make this a-any harder..."

"And that's the last thing I'm trying to do to you," said Dean, quickly. "I mean it. Don't do what I did after Dad died. Don't bottle things up and try to pretend you feel nothing."

Sam shuddered and bowed his head. "I'm scared, Dean," he whispered, fearfully, sounding small and lost. "I'm so scared I'm gonna crack when I see it, that I'll fight to keep the child and end up hurting you, Bobby, Patch... I already feel that way. I figured by blocking it, pretending I didn't feel anything... I could overcome it somehow. But," he raised his head and met Dean's concerned gaze. "I don't think I can. I need help, Dean. Please help me!"

Dean didn't hesitate. He shifted round, gently grasped Sam's shoulders and turned, forcing them both face to face.

"I nearly lost you 'cos of those fucking shifters," he rasped, fiercely. "I'm not gonna lose you to this one. I'm not gonna let them win. Are we clear on that? No matter what happens, we all come out of this in one piece."

Sam regarded him with wet, terrified eyes. "How? Patch told us what would happen once... once it's born. It'll try to kill us all."

Dean shook his head and grinned, that lopsided, cocky Dean Winchester grin that normally sent women's hearts a fluttering, and Sam's eyes a rolling. But this time Sam took comfort from it.

"It's a baby," he said, and then uttered the terrible words often spoken by Top Gear presenters especially to tempt the gods, fate, and providence all in one: "How hard can it be to subdue a baby?"

As though the polymorphic had been eaves dropping, a sudden violent kick from inside had Sam gasping out loud.

_How hard can it be?_

He scowled deeply at his brother. "You just had to say it, didn't you?"

"Sorry, dude," Dean replied, sheepishly. "You..."

A loud knocking at the front door interrupted whatever he was about to say, and a familiar, deep voice called out to them.

"Hello? Anybody home?"

Sam gulped.

Dean got to his feet. "Yup, just coming," he called back, then winked at Sam. "Now the doc's finally here, you ready for this?"

Sam looked anxiously towards the door. His hands were sweaty and shaky, and a few beads of perspiration rolled down the side of his face. No. He wasn't ready. But did he have any choice?

* * *

**TBC.**

**What will the Doc have to say? Can he even help the boys?**

**Or is it too late for Sam?**

**More to come very soon, just show me some love…**

**Cheers guys!**

**Love and hugs,**

**ST xxxx**


	8. Chapter 8

**Born of Ill Intent.**

**Please read warnings in chapter one.**

* * *

**Chapter Eight.**

Sam swallowed, nervously. "Ready as I'll ever be, I guess."

Dean squeezed his shoulder reassuringly, and headed over to admit the doc.

It was snowing heavily outside and a strong, cold wind had struck up. When Dean opened the door, he received a face full of the stuff, leaving him spluttering and breathless.

"Hey doc," he choked out, blinking away the large, melting flakes from his eyes. "How was the journey?"

William grinned widely, revealing a set of perfect white teeth that almost seemed to glow against the backdrop of his ebony coloured skin.

"Challenging," he answered, decisively. "And let me tell you, travelling at a hundred miles an hour on ice-packed roads in a snow storm? Take it from me. Make sure you have a change of underwear 'cos it can get real hairy out there."

Dean chuckled and stepped back to make way for the doc. "C'mon in before you freeze like a popsickle."

William held up a finger. "Just one second."

He reached up and brushed off the building layer of snow from the top of his afro and gave his head a shake, sending a shower of white over the veranda.

"There," he said, more than satisfied. "Just caught a glimpse of my reflection in the window; looked like a pint of Guinness with eyeballs. Sam's been through enough of late as it is without me scaring him senseless."

His gaze landed on the patient in that moment, and his smile softened. Sam was watching him carefully from over the back of the sofa, instinctively searching for signs of a threat.

Keeping his body language casual and movements slow, the doc stepped inside and closed the door behind him.

"Hey man, can I get you anything? Coffee? Something stronger?" asked Dean, quietly. Poor guy had driven a long way, after all.

"No thanks. Maybe later," said William, setting his medical kit on the floor while still maintaining eye contact with his patient.

Sensing his input wasn't required for now, Dean kept silent and more or less allowed himself to fade into the background, at the same time making sure Sammy knew he was still there for him.

"How you feeling, son?" asked William, while unzipping his coat and hanging it on the coat stand by the door.

Sam nervously rose up off the sofa. "Ok, I guess," he replied, warily, eyeing the doc with trepidation. "All things considered."

The doc nodded. "Well, you sure seem healthy enough," he said with another reassuring smile. "Is it ok if I examine you, just to be on the safe side?"

Sam looked uncertain, but at Dean's encouraging nod he reluctantly agreed.

He stepped away from the sofa, hoisted himself up onto his bed opposite the fire, and screwed his eyes shut.

The doc was gentle and respectful to his patient at all times, even during some of the more intimate examinations. Dean turned his back at those points, to afford his brother some privacy, and set about brewing some coffee. The doc might not have needed any, but Dean felt he could sure use a caffeine load.

"Well, everything looks fine, Sam," said William, half an hour later. "You've healed nicely all over. That's great news."

Sam heaved a sigh. "I feel a 'but' coming on."

William winced in sympathy. "Yeah. Uh... Bobby told me pretty much what the deal is here. I'm sure you're aware that I'm not experienced at dealing with pregnancies in general, let alone the more... _exotic_ varieties." He huffed a little in bewilderment, and scratched at an ear. "But hell, man! Male pregnancy? Bobby practically blew me away when he let _that _one out of the bag!"

Sam just stared at him forlornly. "I'm the _guy_ who's pregnant and _you're _the one freaking out." He sighed again, in despair. "That's just great."

William sat down next to him on the bed. "Well, it's not every day a doctor comes across a medical marvel like you," he said, with a twinkle in his eye, and gave Sam a friendly nudge. "I could make a fortune out of this!"

Sam's chuckle was reluctant but genuine. "Yeah, I guess so." He blew out a breath and seemed to pull himself together. "So doc, how're we gonna handle this? Please tell me you have some ideas."

The doc inwardly winced at the hopeful expression on the kid's face, but smiled reassuringly. "I have some theories, but we're gonna have to try a few things out first."

Dean stepped in at this point. No one was carrying out experiments on his little brother without his say so.

"Like what?" he asked, sharply.

Seeing the older brother's concern and having already witnessed his protectiveness towards Sam, William decided honesty was the best policy if he wanted to keep his nose in the middle of his face where it belonged.

"Before I elaborate," he said, glancing from one sibling to the other, "I need you to understand something."

Dean nodded, but still looked wary. "Go on."

"This is hit and miss, ya'll understand that, right?" said the doc, still eyeing the brothers. "Whatever we try carries a risk. I'm not gonna lie to you. Anything can happen, and anything can go wrong. I make no promises to my patients under _usual_ circumstances, so there's no way in hell I'm gonna make any under these. Do we understand each other?"

Dean turned away, hands on hips, and Sam could feel the helpless anger and fear just rolling off him.

"Ok, I get that," said Sam.

The doc nodded. "What I _will_ tell you both, is this," he said, and waited until Dean was looking his way again. "I will give you my all. I will do my very best to keep you alive, throughout this. I will fight for you, Sam, and I won't give up. Your life comes first, before that child you carry, before anything, or anybody else. Now _that _is the one promise I _am_ prepared to make to the both of you. But while nothing in life carries a guarantee, I'm gonna need you to trust me."

They all remained silent for a short time as the brothers took that in. And then Sam nodded his acceptance, while Dean cleared his throat, his eyes suspiciously bright as he gazed back at William.

"I trust you," he said, hoarsely. "He's my little brother, the only thing I've got left of any value in this world, but I trust you."

"Well then," said William. "We have several options..."

They weren't exactly ground breaking. The first option was to place Sam under a general anaesthetic from the moment labour became imminent, while the second was to use a local anaesthetic. Epidural, gas and air was the third.

"B-but," Sam spluttered, anxiously. "Those are all standard procedures!"

William nodded. "Yep. All standard for normal caesarean sections."

Dean leapt on the panic wagon. "In case you hadn't noticed? _Nothing about this is normal!_"

William held up his hands, palms out. "Yeah, I'm aware of that, Dean, but what else would you suggest? Sam can't give birth conventionally so a c-section is the only choice. It's just a question of pain management."

"Ohshitohshitohshit!" said Sam, under his breath and, unnoticed by the other two, began quietly hyperventilating. "Ohhhhnonononono..."

"How do we know that won't piss it off and kill Sam anyway?" Dean demanded to know, unaware of Sam's startled glance in his direction. "If it's that close to singing 'Happy birthday to me', it's got nothing to lose, right?"

"Look, look, look," said William, trying to defuse the situation. "From what Bobby told me, it will go to term unless it feels threatened. Sedation should just send Sam to sleep and, in theory, not send any danger messages to the infant. But there's only one way to find out."

Sam's gazed snapped back to his, along with Dean's.

"Which is?" said Dean, a shade sarcastically.

"We give it a try with a weak dose," the doctor replied, somewhat hesitantly, and when the brothers stared at him in horror he added: "We're shooting in the dark here, guys. It's trial and error time."

* * *

"Did you remember the milk and eggs?"

Bobby raised an eyebrow and jerked his chin at the huge box in the rear seat. "A whole herd of cows and an entire hen house went into action for this."

Patch grinned and slammed the door shut. "That should keep us going for a day or two."

"Huh," Bobby grunted, looking worried. "If we're lucky. Poor kid's hungry round the clock right now."

Patch's smile faded. "Maybe we should get more."

The two men stood in a doubting silence, mentally counting out the groceries.

Ten pounds of lean mince beef.

Ten whole chickens.

Two shoulders and two whole legs of lamb.

Several pounds of BBQ marinated pork ribs, belly slices and trotters.

Several thick, juicy steaks.

Three packs of smoked kippers – Patch's favourite, much to Bobby's disgust.

A selection of frozen fish fillets.

Five dozen eggs.

A whole wheel of extra mature cheddar cheese - when Patch and Bobby were just pulling up outside the store, Sam had called with the news that he had developed his first absolute craving. "Cheese. Oh, and grapes. And could you get me some celery?" Followed by the sound of Dean's disgusted protests coming through loud and clear in the background. This had culminated in a second trip back inside the store, much to the astonishment of the sales assistant, who was starting to feel rather put upon.

Bobby scratched the back of his head and continued checking over their goods...

Ten gallons of whole milk.

Two gallons of cream.

Three large boxes of loose leaf tea and several packets of freshly ground coffee. Decaf, of course – Last thing Sam needed right then was stimulants.

Five pounds of sugar – Demerara, _not _white (white sugar made Sam sick for some reason).

Ten pounds of carrots, potatoes, and various other leguminous vegetables.

Around a ton of apples, oranges, bananas, and various woodland berries.

Ten loaves of fresh baked bread, and five large packs of unsalted butter.

And, to everyone's dismay, silver skin pickled onions and extra hot wasabi sauce.

_Mixed together._ The result of _yet another_ craving, logged by _yet another_ call from Sam a couple of minutes into the shopping trip.

The only item that seemed out of place might have been the Reader's Digest Book entitled Pregnancy and Your Body, bought from a second hand book store when Bobby had been passing by on his way back to the truck.

"Orange juice," said Patch. "Freshly squeezed."

Bobby rolled his eyes and stalked off, to re-emerge from the store a few minutes later with several cartons of the stuff.

He dumped his load on the rear seat next to the box of eggs.

The two men looked at each other.

"You forgot the beans," Bobby murmured, distractedly.

"Ah, bejesus..." Patch sighed and trundled back inside the store to face the perplexed sales assistant for the final time that day.

By time they were finished, Patch's flat bed truck was almost over flowing with groceries. After several stops to retrieve the odd bag of carrots or potatoes that had bounced out of the back, the journey back to the cabin was slow and arduous.

* * *

"Are we ready, Gentlemen?" William glanced from the older Winchester to the younger. "A small dose, just to see how you react, ok, Sam?"

Sam nodded but Dean and William could see how nervous he was. The kid was laying underneath the covers on his bed, fingers fiddling nervously with his new IV line. When he looked up, the doc was standing over him, holding a syringe and eyeing him with concern.

Sam gulped. "Go ahead. Get it over with."

William lowered the needle. "You need to calm down," he told, gently. "If the poly picks up on your anxiety it may perceive it as an attack."

That didn't help Sam's nerves at all.

"Oh God..." he struggled into a sitting position, eyes wide. "I can't do this... _Dean, I can't do this..."_

"Whoa, whoa, hey!" Dean, who was perched on the edge of Sam's bed, leaned over the kid and cupped the back of his neck with both hands. "It's ok. You'll be fine, I promise, just take it easy and breathe nice and slow. Keep looking at me, ok? Eyes on me the whole time."

Sam stared at him through watery eyes.

"I-I can't... Dean _help me_..." He clutched at his stomach, gasping and choking.

"Sammy?" Dean covered his brother's hands with both of his. "What's wrong?"

"Too late... _too late._" Sam suddenly threw back his head and screamed, long and loud. "_Argghhhhh!"_

William pulled the covers back and gasped in shock. "Late? I'd say its way too early!"

Sam's t-shirt was bulging outwards, tiny hand prints outlined in the fabric.

"Shit!" Dean stood, shoving Sam's shirt upwards until it bunched up around his armpits.

The skin on Sam's stomach was streaked with red and gold, glowing and pulsating grotesquely, the surface mottled like orange peel, and as Dean and William watched, the prints seemed to change shape at the finger tips.

"What the hell?" Dean blinked. "Are those fucking _claws_?"

Just as the words left his mouth, the skin bowed outwards around the 'claws', on the verge of splitting, and Sam renewed his screams. Seconds later, long gouges appeared from the inside, and Dean could spy the tips of tiny, razor sharp nails.

"Oh God..."

Sam's screams faded to gasps and whimpers as blood bubbled out of his mouth and ran down his chin.

"William, do something for fuck sake!" Dean yelled in despair.

The doc shook his head in horror and bewilderment.

"I don't know..." he whispered, and began to rummage through his medical kit, not sure what the hell he was looking for but ready to try anything. "I don't..."

His hand fell on a pack of sterile gauze and dressings.

William paused, his mind running down a mental list, ticking off all the possibilities and options. Then he nodded.

"Ok," he said. "We have no choice but to go through with this."

Ignoring Dean's panic stricken face, and endless barrage of questions, William plunged the syringe into Sam's IV line, and immediately began preparing another.

"This should deal with the pain," he said, and as soon as the second syringe was empty, set to work on the delivery.

This was definitely uncharted territory. William had limited experience with child birth as it was, but he was pretty sure there weren't too many physicians in the world who had dealt with one where the kid was literally clawing its way out.

If there were, it would have been hard to keep out of the press, for a start.

He was also fairly certain that the resulting panic would lower worldwide birth rates quite considerably. Many legs would be closing around the globe right then.

Red and gold continued glowing, casting a weird, throbbing light round the cabin, bouncing off the walls and sending shadows leaping high enough to illuminate previously unseen books stored among the roof beams.

William began to wonder what the hell was coming out of Sam, what heinous creature had been spawned by his abductors. Surely, only a terrible, horrendous, nightmarish being could be born from such a violent and unnatural union.

Meanwhile, Sam began to quieten down, but Dean wasn't sure if that was the medication or because he was outright dying from shock and blood loss.

And if that didn't suck then what did?

Of all the crap they'd been through over the years, all the shitty, dangerous hunts, the serious injuries they'd survived, this... _this_ was how Sam was going out?

Dean pressed his mouth to Sam's ear and closed his eyes.

"No you don't!" he whispered, fiercely. "Not like this. No fucking way am I losing you to some weird-ass, psycho pregnancy!"

Sam gasped and panted, eyes at half mast and unseeing. There was no telling what state of mind he was in but he must have been listening because he managed a half-smile-part-grimace and a nod nevertheless.

"Good boy," Dean murmured. "Here we go..."

* * *

**TBC**

**Someone pass the bucket; I hear some gagging and retching going on and it's not coming from Sam!**

**As always, please remember that this IS fiction and that this is an equally fictional pregnancy, so the timings won't be real, and nor will any other medical stuff. Also, remember that the baby is not entirely human and not like the shifters we know and love in canon.**

**So no complaints, please.**

**Once again, I posted the new chapter tonight instead of answering reviews. Got my cardiology check up and ECG tomorrow so I thought it best to take it easy this evening. Hope you guys don't mind.**

**Cheers everyone! As always, your reviews put a smile on my face.**

**Love and hugs,**

**ST xxx**


	9. Chapter 9

**Born of Ill Intent.**

**Please read warnings from chapter one.**

* * *

**Chapter Nine.**

After an hour had passed by unnoticed, William itched to wipe the sweat from his brow before it rolled into his eyes. The blood loss hadn't been as bad as it looked, and some of it actually came from the child. He wasn't entirely sure why that should be the case, but William theorised that there was a reservoir of blood held somewhere during the pregnancy in case the surrogate parent fell on hard times and there was a shortage of food. When birth was imminent, that reservoir was no longer needed and hence released through the parent's gut, and ejected via the mouth. Sam wouldn't expire from haemorrhaging at least, but there was still the birth to come and the threat of shock and infection.

William had cut into the existing tears in Sam's stomach, managed to stem the blood loss temporarily, and could now see the shape of _something_ squirming around inside. The intestines were bunched up, squeezed to one side to make room for the child, and William was amazed Sam hadn't been in more pain and discomfort from that alone. The fact that he was even alive at this stage was pretty astonishing, in fact.

It appeared that the poly's growth had altered the structure of Sam's insides a little, but there was no way of knowing if this was a temporary adjustment or if it was permanent. Even more astonishing was the lack of a placenta to speak of, just a tiny sac over the poly's mouth and nose, apparently filled with blood, connected to Sam's large intestine via a long purple tube. If he had to guess, the sac was there to oxygenate and feed the child, and the tube acted much like an umbilical cord. He also suspected it was the tube that contained the reservoir Sam had vomited up earlier.

Which all meant that the child was directly breathing blood. Perhaps the lungs developed differently to human infants, though it was hard to imagine _anything _human-like about this whole fiasco.

It was astounding to say the least, and William could have easily written over a hundred papers for various medical journals all over the world.

He grunted and smoothed away more blood, fingers brushing lightly over the facial sac. Now he could see the child's face.

And it was indeed a child, no mistaking it.

William gaped in astonishment, realising that he hadn't been entirely sure _what _to expect. Some monster with an asshole for a face, a giant sphincter for a nose, teeth like a Doberman–vampire lovechild, and perhaps a pair of horns thrown in for good measure, but it wasn't this...

"Oh my God..." he whispered in amazement.

"What is it?" asked Dean, urgently, shifting his position to try and see what William was dealing with.

It was a little boy, by the looks of things. A beautiful, healthy, baby boy with blood darkened curly hair, and teeny, tiny hands, and teeny, tiny feet.

It might have been fascinating.

It might even had been cute, if not for those teeny, tiny hands, with teeny, tiny fingers, flailing around with equally teeny, tiny lethal Freddy Krugers morphed onto the end of each one, a heartbreaking reminder that this child was a danger and a menace, and at some point would have to be _dealt _with.

And then, the baby's eyes opened, fully developed and fully aware by the looks of things.

Eyes that were a stunning forest green. The child was breathtaking.

"It's a monster," William told Dean, without further hesitation. Instinct told him that Bobby would approve of his decision to withhold the facts. "A hideous monster. Don't look at it, Dean, and for God's sake don't let Sam look!"

Dean, for once, didn't argue, but did his best to comfort Sam and keep him from looking over his shoulder.

The doc felt a moment's guilt, but held fast to his burden.

Dean didn't need to know the truth right now, if ever. How would either boy handle knowing that their 'off-spring' not only appeared perfectly human, but also bore an uncanny resemblance to the both of them. For as sure as eggs were eggs, with Sam's hair colour and cheek bones, and Dean's eye colour and jaw line, the child would grow up as devastatingly handsome as his fathers, if he were allowed to live.

It was too much to expect from the brothers. They'd been through enough, and this would break them.

The baby's muffled cooing through the facial sac, and those little innocent eyes staring up at him made William almost falter. It was just too surreal for words.

The wondrous moment was broken when the baby began squirming again, and Sam moaned softly in pain. The meds hadn't affected the infant at all, not in the slightest. And, it seemed, were already wearing off for poor Sam.

But now it was time, William was pretty sure. All the signs were there.

He grimaced, got a good hold on the slippery child and began to pull.

* * *

"Snowing again," Patch murmured.

Bobby looked up from his newspaper and scowled. "Dammit. It's already four feet deep in places, and if the wind gets up the drifts could easily block the road."

Patch glanced over at him for a moment. "Don't worry. He's on his way. Probably already at the cabin with the boys," he snorted, a little amused. "It's _us _we should be worried about. S'gonna get feckin cold tonight, and I don't fancy spending it in here cuddled up wi'd you."

Bobby shot him a narrow eyed, furious glare. "Not that the prospect holds much joy for me either, but what's that s'posed to mean, exactly?"

Patch shrugged and didn't even bother to smother his grin. "No offence, Bobby, but you're a tad _ripe_, if you're understanding me, not to mention your farts could scare off a bad tempered skunk."

"It's called working man's sweat, ya Irish Idgit," Bobby retorted with a huff. "Comes from wielding an axe just to keep _you_ assholes warm at night!"

Patch chuckled. "Sam did most of that for us, and besides: there _are_ shower room facilities at the cabin. You know that, right?"

Bobby grumbled under his breath and then pointed at the road ahead. "Make a left just up here."

The Irishman didn't bother to argue that he already knew the way, but let Bobby think he'd won this round. The two men had spent most of the journey engaged in some harmless, good natured snarking and Patch was up by a few points.

Bobby stared out at the wintry landscape, unable to appreciate the beauty of trees laden with snow and red breasted robins hopping about as though it was Christmas.

Smug little bastards.

Another half hour and the cabin's snow covered roof was just about visible against the backdrop of the surrounding forest and foothills.

"See?" said Patch, pointing out a dark blue Porsche Cayenne parked alongside the veranda. "Told you he would be here."

"Good enough for me," said Bobby, already clambering out of the passenger seat. He slammed the door shut and headed straight to the cabin. As soon as he pushed the front door open he halted abruptly and stared.

"Jesus!" he exclaimed, loudly, then began shrugging out of his jacket and striding directly inside.

Hearing Bobby's shout, Patch hurried in after him, leaving the groceries out in the truck. The outside air temperature was low enough to freeze the testicles off an angry bison, so the food wasn't likely to spoil.

He was met with chaos, blood and panic, and a scene straight out of a horror movie.

Sam looked sick, pale and barely conscious, his stomach cut open, William's hands fishing around inside him, pulling on something. Dean was trying his best to comfort Sam and shield him from the grisly sight of his own intestines by leaning over the kid's upper body. He also looked rather ill and his face was whiter than the snow lining the windowsill right then, but his words of encouragement never ceased, muttering "Just hold on." and "Nearly done, kiddo."

William appeared… well, stunned and dishevelled was the closest way to describe it. If not for the natural colour of his skin, Patch was certain he'd have been as white as a priest's cassock.

Bobby was clearly shell shocked. Patch had seen that expression before, on hunters coming home from a particularly harrowing case, or soldiers following a bloody battle, the terrible loss of good friends heavy on their hearts.

On top of all this, there was the noise. Sam's pained keening and moaning accompanied the slick sounds of blood and flesh as William pulled harder.

"Ok, get ready!" said William, suddenly. "Bobby, pass me that towel," he gestured with his chin to a large, fluffy white towel draped over the foot board of the bed. "Here he comes..."

A loud, wet, sucking noise accompanied the kitten-like mewling of the newborn poly as the doc threw all his efforts into one, final tug. The infant came free and was dumped into the waiting arms of Bobby Singer.

Bobby stared down at the tiny bundle, his heart breaking in two.

"My God..." he whispered and glanced up to meet William's sad and anxious gaze.

Patch merely closed his eyes in despair and looked away.

The doc nodded, solemnly. "Do what you have to do, man. Just don't tell me about it," he told him, quietly, then turned back to his patient, effectively dismissing the poly outright.

Bobby swallowed hard, blinked away tears from his eyes and left the cabin before Dean or Sam could see what he carried. Patch made to follow him, but the older hunter stopped him at the door.

"No. Stay with the boys," he looked down into the baby's tiny face, so familiar it physically hurt. "I'll be humane."

Patch nodded, his own eyes bright with unshed tears.

"Oh, and Patch? Do me a favour, huh?" asked Bobby.

"Anything!"

Bobby smiled sadly. "Please don't tell 'em."

"Understood," said Patch, in a low voice. "It'll go to the very grave with me"

Bobby sighed, turned and stepped quietly out on to veranda, muttering "With us all."

Patch closed the door and rested his forehead on the cool, wooden surface.

"How much more fucked up can this world get?" he murmured to himself.

* * *

The infant poly mewled again; Bobby gently rocked his arms.

"You sure are a cute lil' thing, I'll give you that," he said, softly. "So much like Sam and Dean it's almost unbelievable. All the best parts of each of 'em."

The baby blinked up at him with wide, curious green eyes, and Bobby felt a reluctant smile pulling at his mouth. There was a distinct intelligence in the youngster's gaze, but offered no challenge or threat.

"You don't seem so dangerous, huh, kid?" he told the poly, who gurgled happily in agreement, and blew a large spit bubble. "Healthy enough. Well developed..."

Bobby tilted his head to one side in consideration.

The child hadn't cried at all, even during his traumatic birth, merely made the little sounds of a baby letting everyone know he was finally here, and seemed fully aware of what was going on around him. Before long, however, he would need sustenance, and Bobby began wondering if cow's milk would be ok, or if he needed a special kind of polymorphic milk...

A sudden tearing noise broke the moment of quiet, and Bobby felt a searing pain in his gut. Shocked, he looked down to find the infant had torn a hole in the makeshift blanket, and buried his tiny claws inside Bobby's abdomen.

Being so small, they hadn't gone too deep but the pain was indescribable.

The infant's once cute face was now morphed into an evil scowl, and he opened his tiny mouth to reveal pointy, sharp fangs that glinted horribly in the light from the window.

"Eeeeeeoooooooowww!" the damn thing howled like a banshee, and then hissed and spat, hot saliva landing on Bobby's face.

"Holy shit!"

Bobby gritted his teeth, dragged the tiny claws from his gut and threw the little monster as far away as he could manage.

The poly landed some feet away, face down and furiously spitting snow.

Bobby reached for the silver loaded Glock in his back waist band, mind made up that the child... _thing, _no longer a _he_, more an _it... _was going out, one way or another.

It suddenly hopped onto its' tiny feet, little fists clenched at its' sides and actually _growled_ at the hunter, before launching itself into a speeding sprint and leaping high in the air, aiming for Bobby's face...

A single shot rang out and the poly dropped to the snow, blood pulsing from the hole straight through the centre of its head.

Bobby sighed, rubbed his wounded gut and closed his eyes for a second to regain his composure. Big mistake, as it happened, because when he opened his eyes again the polymorphic was gone, leaving behind a red, wet patch of melting snow.

"Balls!"

Backing away, carefully watching his surroundings, Bobby kept his weapon at the ready, both hands gripping it so hard the knuckles showed white, arms sweeping from side to side, and occasionally glancing nervously up towards the roof. He didn't stop until he was standing right in front of the entrance to the cabin. Then he drew a breath, counted down from three and bolted inside, slamming the door shut behind him.

* * *

William's smile trembled only a little, which was a miracle really. He felt fairly sure he was close to freaking out completely, and was surprised nobody else had noticed. But then, they were all busy having freak-outs of their own, he guessed.

"It's over now, boys," he said. "Time to close up."

Sam's eyes were glassy in his pale face, his breathing slow and laboured, but he managed a nod. Dean gripped the kid's hands in both of his and grinned weakly.

"M'proud of you, Sammy," he told his brother. "You made it through. Everything's gonna be ok now."

Sam's mouth opened a few times before he voiced a question.

"Wha... what did it look like?" he asked, panting with the effort. "I-I din't getta see. W-was it a b-baby?"

Dean noted the worried glance shared between Patch and William, and his eyes narrowed with suspicion.

When nobody answered him, Sam managed to raise his head, gaze sweeping the room.

"Where is it? Where's my kid?" He glanced up at the doc, eyes narrowed to pin points, and lowered his voice. "Where's my child, William? I want my baby! Now!"

"Calm down Sam," said Dean, feeling uneasy and trying not to show it. "Bobby had to take it. Remember? We talked about this."

Sam's head snapped round, ready with a biting reply, but he caught the look on Dean's face and simply stared at his brother, tired eyes welling up.

"Yeah," he said, brokenly after a brief silence. "Yeah, I remember." He looked down at his bloody hands but his question was again directed to his doctor. "So... uh... _was_ it a baby? A human looking baby, I mean?"

Dean held his breath, waiting for the answer and hoping it wouldn't break anyone's heart.

William, who was busy stitching Sam's insides, cleared his throat and shot Patch another nervous look before answering. "No, it had taken the form of a young wendigo, Sam. You're well rid of it."

He saw Dean stiffen up out the corner of his eye and knew for certain that there'd be some searching questions asked. He inwardly kicked himself. The older brother had clearly heard the worried quaver in the doc's voice and knew something wasn't right, here. Fortunately, depending on how one perceived it, the sound of a gunshot from outside broke up the pending interrogation, and was instantly followed by booted feet clomping hurriedly across the veranda.

"What the hell?" Dean exclaimed, shifting closer to Sam.

"Sounds like Bobby didn't sing it a nursery rhyme and now it's pissed," said Patch, drawing a Magnum .45 from a leather holster under his jacket.

Dean tilted his head admiringly. "Nice piece."

Patch grinned. "I'm a big Dirty Harry fan," he said. "Though, I doubt he ever carried silver ammo."

"Probably not," said William, working on Sam's surgical wounds as quickly as he could. He nearly dropped the damn needle right inside his patient's guts when the door swung open; Bobby Singer emerged like a whirlwind, and slammed it closed again.

He leaned against the door.

"Give ya three guesses," he wheezed out, and if Dean didn't know better he'd have said the poor guy nearly shit himself when something from outside slammed into the cabin wall right by his head.

Before anyone could breathe, it happened again, only louder; a deep, earth shattering _boom_ as though something was trying to head butt its way inside.

"Jesus Christ!" the doc shouted in panic. "What the fuck was that?!"

Bobby shook his head and shimmied along to the nearest window, his back to the wall. "Meet the newest addition to the Winchester clan. Interesting kid. Don't say a lot. Got one helluva temper on 'im!"

"Keep on patching him up," Dean told the doc, then quickly cupped Sam's jaw. "Sammy, you stay here and don't move, ok?"

Sam shuddered and whimpered in pain. William nodded and carried on, trying his best to keep the stitches neat and straight, which wasn't easy given how badly his hands were shaking. The gashes in Sam's stomach were still bleeding, and there was still some way to go.

Another _boom,_ this time from the roof, sent a shower of dust down on Patch's head. The Irishman choked and coughed, brushed a hand over his hair and patted down his clothes. He scowled up at the rafters, all good naturedness gone.

"If that little shite damages any of my books..." Patch muttered and aimed his weapon upwards, eyes scanning for movement.

"I missed and shot 'im in the head. Need to get the little bastard in the heart," said Bobby, just about audible over the next loud bang. "Dean, stay with Sam and William. They need protecting. Patch and I will take care of this."

Another loud, eardrum bursting _slam_ resounded round the cabin, followed by creaking and splintering. Broken wood beams and journals suddenly rained down on Patch, knocking him to the floor, and leaving him with a bloody gash down the side of his head. But that wasn't all that came down.

Though bells, buzzers and claxons were going off in his ears, Patch had enough presence of mind to roll behind one of the sofas and scramble back to the breakfast bar. He was just in time, because the roof completely gave way and, amid yet more wrecked journals, dust and roof beams, _something_ landed in the room.

All hunters stared up at it, eyes wide with horror and astonishment.

"Holy snowballs!" Bobby gasped.

It was around ten feet tall, covered in soft, white fur, a long muzzle filled with snarling fangs, and paws the size of serving platters, which went straight through the floorboards and shattered the wood into splinters.

"What the fuck is that?!" screamed the doc, suddenly released from his jaw dropping, pant wetting fear and catapulted straight into sheer, unadulterated bowel-moving terror.

"That, my friend," replied Dean, in a shaky voice and desperately trying to keep his shit together, "is the biggest fucking polar bear I have ever seen. Though, truth be told, I ain't seen many average ones."

They all gaped stupidly as the beast rose up on its hind legs and roared, its front paws waving and clawing at the air like an animal possessed. The terrifying moment was ruined somewhat when more books rained down and smacked it on the snout.

The bear's roar turned into a sharp yelp. It blinked in confusion, and virtually crossed its eyes trying to stare down at its bruised nose.

Resisting the irrational urge to laugh hysterically, Dean took advantage of the distraction by throwing aside Sam's blankets and sliding his arms under the kid's back and knees. The doc was still suturing, but soon gave up and roughly taped some sterile gauze and bandages in place over the wounds as quickly and tightly as he could. William regretted that he didn't have time to be gentle, knew he had to be hurting the poor kid, and muttered his apologies, even as Dean started lifting Sam from the bed.

"Dean!" Sam struggled weakly against his hold. "What the hell are you doing? You can't carry me like this!"

"Watch me. Now, c'mon," Dean nodded to the doc. "I've just about had enough of Jumanji. Let's go!"

William grabbed his medical bag and, miracle of miracles, they made it away from the bed just in time because, seconds later, a large paw descended and smashed it to pieces. Bobby ducked a flying bed knob the size of his head, and raced to safety by the bathroom on the far side of the cabin.

Dean began to shuffle back and round the sofas, intending to make for the rear exit in the kitchen area.

Guessing Dean's plan, Bobby began firing on the bear, trying to lure it away from the cabin's kitchen door, but Patch had a better idea.

"Dean, head to the fireplace," he called out from behind the breakfast bar. "Press the third brick in from the left, fourth up from the floor!"

The polar-poly heard that, and swivelled its head in Dean's direction, growling angrily. It landed awkwardly back on its massive front paws, shattering more wooden boards, and lumbered a step closer.

"Oops," said Patch. "Sorry!"

Just as the bear showed it's fangs in another bladder juddering roar, Patch opened fire on it, plugging two rounds in its large, fury rump.

The beast paused, and swung its huge head round to face him.

Patch gulped and stared, feeling stupidly unsure of what to do now.

Large, intelligent eyes, filled with more malice than the Irishman had ever seen on a land mammal, gazed back.

To his amazement, the poly-bear suddenly _winked_ at him and, with one last roar, the damn thing... _morphed._

Dean blinked. "Now _that_ I wasn't expecting."

Patch and Bobby gulped in unison.

"Sonovabitch!"

"Bugger me!"

All tactics went out the window as the two older men scrambled over journals, broken beams and dislodged furniture, and made for the fireplace.

Dean backed towards the stone hearth; Sam still slumped in his arms and, after a quick count up the left hand side, thumped on the brick with an elbow. He instantly regretted his hastiness.

"Ow, ow, _ow!_" he complained.

"Dean?" Sam whispered, anxiously gazing up at his brother's face.

"Funny bone... _funny bone!"_ Dean hissed, angrily, but before he could say anything more, the entire back of the fireplace slid sideways, taking the log fire with it. A low, stone passageway was revealed, with steps spiralling downwards.

Patch peered over William's shoulder and gaped in astonishment.

"Uh, normally that's just a wine cellar, but sometimes it's just a storage room," he said, and scratched his head in bewilderment. "First time it's ever turned into _that_."

They all hesitated.

A flaming torch, fixed to a roof support strut just by the top step, lit the way, casting creepy looking shadows on the walls and ceiling. Several more torches blazed away further down.

No one liked the look of this, but the mysterious destination of the passageway was infinitely more preferable to the hissing and slithering coming from behind.

William followed Dean and Sam into the unknown, wondering what his chances of survival actually were, and then decided that he didn't really want to know.

_Why ruin the surprise?_

Bobby and Patch barrelled into the passageway behind the doc, and only just managed to seal the entrance in time. But Bobby would be forever haunted by the image of a giant snake, mouth gaping, fangs dripping with venom, and beady, unblinking eyes mere inches from his own.

It was almost enough to make a grown man defecate in his own pants all over again.

* * *

**TBC.**

**So where do they go from here? Ah, yes. Down...**

**Hope you all enjoyed the action in this rather silly chapter, of an extremely silly story. And it's about to get far, far sillier...**

**I just hope you all love 'silly'!**

**Cheers everyone!**

**Love and hugs,**

**ST xxx**


	10. Chapter 10

**Born of Ill Intent.**

**Please read warnings from chapter one.**

**Many thanks for all your lovely reviews for the last chapter. It's given my muse a nice big hug!**

**On with the silliness...**

**Chapter Ten.**

* * *

"Dean, put me down, I can walk," demanded Sam, feeling bolstered by the adrenaline rush of the last few minutes. "You can't carry me down those steps, I'm too heavy, and you could trip."

His brother glanced at him, appraisingly. Sam was soaked in sweat, his hair damp and stuck to his forehead. Blood still oozed from under the bandages roughly taped to his middle.

"Really?" asked Dean, a shade sarcastically. "You're weaker than a newborn kitten, I could use your gut as a colander, and you can walk?" He shook his head. "I don't think so, Sammy. Besides, you're still bleeding. The doc needs to finish sewing you up before we go anywhere."

Bobby scratched the back of his neck and glanced back at the entrance. "Can that thing get through?" he wondered aloud.

Patch shook his head. "Doubt it. The walls are eight feet thick. They have to be to withstand the magical forces involved in ethereal travel…"

The walls shook with the force of a strong impact from the other side, and a huge crack appeared in the brick work.

Dust pitter-pattered down to the concrete floor, sounding deceptively friendly in the enclosed space, much like a woodland stream or waterfall.

Everyone stared at the crack as though it was about to bite them.

"Maybe we should just go," said Sam, gulping, eyes wide with worry. "I mean, these bandages will hold out a while longer, right?"

William glanced between his patient and the wall. "Uh… I…"

Something slammed into the wall once again and, halfway up, a brick toppled out, landing on the floor with a loud _crack_.

The doc nodded frantically. "Yeah, sure," he said, shakily. "It can wait. Let's survive Anaconda first, and _then_ we'll worry about infection."

Bobby nodded. "I just hope whatever's at the other end'll be a darn sight friendlier!"

But Dean wasn't listening. He was already leading the way, heading down the steps and carrying his injured brother with him.

Patch shrugged and followed, muttering, "Can't be any feckin' worse, surely…"

"Don't say that!" Bobby growled and clipped him round the back of the head. "Idgit!"

* * *

The minute they rounded the third turn on the spiral stairwell, the slamming stopped. Dust drifted down in the silence that followed, and the men all exchanged glances.

Sam cocked his head to one side. He'd been allowed to stand, but only because his weight was becoming too much even for Dean's stubborn constitution to take for so long. They had compromised by Dean holding him up with an arm around his waist.

"I don't think it broke through, as such," began Patch, but was interrupted by a weird _skittering _and _scuttling_ noise, and it was getting closer. "But maybe it found its way through the cracks?" he finished, helplessly.

"I've heard that before somewhere," said Sam, eyes narrowed.

"Yeah, me too," said Dean, but he looked scared. Like, _really_ scared.

"What the hell is it?" asked William, not liking the sound of this.

"Ever seen The Mummy?" came the unwanted reply.

Bobby's eyebrows went through what remained of his hairline.

"Oh, you _are_ shittin' me!"

"Nope." Dean plunged down the stairwell once more, dragging Sam with him. "Get moving, unless you want a bunch of flesh-eating scarabs chewin' on your ass!"

Down they went, tripping and scrambling, down, down and further down, until it seemed as though they'd reached the very bowels of the earth. And still they continued downwards. The scarabs were closing in on them, the sound of their tiny insect feet sending shivers down everyone's spines, the thought of flesh and muscle being stripped clean from bone foremost in every man's thoughts.

Patch caught sight of the little blighters, the mere front line of what must have been thousands of beetles, little blue-black shells gleaming in the torch light. He sped up, pushing and shoving at the other men.

"Move it! The bastards are almost on us!"

The small group almost fell forwards in a determined effort to widen their lead, and Bobby could feel his old knees clicking and grinding.

Then, suddenly, the flaming torches flickered out, plunging the stairwell into darkness. From further up, there came a loud _slam, _like two stone slabs banging together, then a multitude of high pitched shrieks which were abruptly cut off an instant later.

Dean and Sam came to a dead stop, with William, Bobby and Patch piling into the back and nearly sending them all rolling down the steps.

"Shit! I gotcha!" Dean tugged Sam right up close when he teetered on the brink, and wrapped both arms around him.

"You ok?" he asked his brother, while fumbling in his jacket pocket for a lighter.

"Yeah," Sam replied on a gasp, eyes at half-mast from pain and exhaustion. He glanced all around, trying to get used to the pitch black and regain his night vision, but the darkness was cloying, suffocating, and Sam was starting to panic until he noticed something.

"Wait, listen!" Sam weakly gripped his brother's arm, and tried to get his breathing under control. "They've stopped, too."

Indeed, the scarabs had fallen silent, and no further sounds came from above.

But the silence was suddenly filled by the long, drawn out grating noise of stone on stone from all around them, accompanied by the _feeling_ of large objects moving and sliding nearby.

Finally pulling out his trusty Zippo, Dean flicked it open and lit up their world.

"Wow!" the doc whispered.

They found themselves in a wide cavern the size of a football stadium. Its walls were lined with white and amethyst crystals, the high ceiling sparkled with stalactites, which almost met the pointy heads of the stalagmites growing up from the cavern floor. Purples and pinks winked prettily back at them, reflecting the flame from Dean's lighter.

"What in God's name is going on?" said Bobby, bewildered and angry. He was startled when his own words echoed back at him, and lowered his voice. "What is this place?"

"It's the house," Patch replied, softly, and his smile was fond when he added "It's still trying to protect us."

Dean nodded. "Must've squashed those scarabs like, well, bugs?" he shrugged.

"Yep," agreed Patch. "When it changed and created this cave, it caught the poly between two forming walls."

"So I'm guessing it ain't over yet," said Bobby, dryly, while William ambled over to a particularly beautiful stalagmite to study it. He seemed fascinated with the place.

Sam stared thoughtfully ahead.

"No, it's not," he said quietly. "He's coming after us, and he won't stop until we're all dead. That's what he was created for."

He turned to Dean, looking sad and lost in the flickering light. "But I have an idea."

His brother frowned. "Why do I get the feeling I ain't gonna like this?"

Sam gazed back, pointedly. "Because you won't," then he turned to Patch. "Polys don't like silver, right?"

Patch shrugged. "Nope. Just like normal, everyday shape shifters, silver will hurt them."

"There silver in these mountains by any chance?"

"Now that you mention it," Patch narrowed his eyes in thought. "There _are_ some old abandoned mines a few miles from here."

Even sick and pale as he was, Sam looked a little excited. "Do you think the house could do us another favour?"

Patch grinned, catching on instantly. "And _then _some, boyo. And then some…"

* * *

"I can't believe you're even considering this!" Dean fumed aloud.

Bobby and Sam both rolled their eyes. It wasn't the first time he'd said it in the last half hour or so, and no doubt wouldn't be the last.

Patch was examining the walls of the cavern and muttering, sometimes patting the crystals affectionately. From what little they could make out, it sounded to the others as though he was _talking_ to it, and that may well have been the case, because in the next second a dull glow seemed to emanate from the surrounding crystals, lending the cavern an enchanting and intimate atmosphere.

William was just finishing the last suture on Sam's stomach by the light of Dean's Zippo. It had taken him a good hour or so under less than adequate conditions, but he admired his handy work as he tied it off, then wrapped and bandaged the wounds tightly. Satisfied Sam's gut looked secure enough, he packed away his equipment. All things considered, he hadn't done a bad job, but the kid was the real hero in this. Sam hadn't uttered a word of complaint, though his face had been tight with pain, teeth digging into his lower lip, and fists clenched to breaking point around Dean's hands.

"There," said William, patting Sam's shoulder and helping him sit up a little, his back against a rough wall. "That should serve you well for a few hours, but it _will_ need changing. In the meantime, I want you to take it easy," he glanced briefly at Dean. "And you can forget any plans you might have for now. You're in no fit state to take on a field mouse, let alone a polymorphic."

Dean nodded and thumped his fist gently against a stalagmite. "Damn straight," he told his brother, and ignored the kid's feeble glare.

Any forthcoming arguments were put on hold by Patch, who joined the rest of the group with a goofy grin on his face, and a delicious smelling bundle in his arms.

"Grubs up, boys," he announced to his stunned companions, and dumped down several steaming hot, grease-proof bags. "Best burgers in the world, made with twenty-one day matured prime Irish fillet, smoked bacon, Cornish Cruncher mature cheddar, homemade ketchup and hot English mustard. Oh, and I pickled the gherkins meself!"

"W-what? How…?" Dean stammered around a mouthful of saliva, eyes filled with the look of a hungry predator that'd caught the scent of his prey. He sniffed the air furiously, putting Bobby in mind of a big, friendly dog snuffling for left over crumbs.

Patch widened his grin. "We already had the ingredients; the house just put them together for me."

Bobby stared at the feast, a question forming. "So why…?"

Patch anticipated him. "Shouldn't use magic for something so mundane and trivial as _shopping_. It's disrespectful and causes no end of trouble. And besides," he said, with a self-conscious shrug. "I love to cook. It's a nice, relaxing hobby."

Dean was no longer interested in explanations, and had already sunk his teeth into succulent beef and fresh baked bread, moaning obscenely.

"Ooofffmyyyfffuckinffffgodddd!" he managed around an oversized mouthful, meat juices, ketchup, and mustard oozing and dripping down his chin.

Sam normally would have grimaced, but instead found comfort and humour in the familiarity of his brother's disgusting eating habits. He couldn't help smiling fondly.

"Good, eh?" said Patch, with a twinkle in his eye.

Dean nodded and moaned again, saving his breath this time for another bite.

Everyone downed three burgers each, but Sam declined food on William's orders.

"Nil by mouth for now," he told his patient, kindly. "Your gut's too badly damaged to attempt digestion and needs time to heal. Ideally, you should be on a nutrient drip, but that'll have to wait until we get to safety. Unless…" he raised an eyebrow at Patch and nodded his head towards the crystals.

The Irishman smiled apologetically. "Intravenous drips aren't usually covered in house practical magic. Might end up doing more harm than good if we asked." He scratched his chin thoughtfully. "But I can ask it to help dull the pain a little. Might take a while to formulate, but it works real well, if you're interested?"

His question was directed at Sam, who nodded eagerly.

"Dude, I'll try anything right now."

"Consider it done," Patch replied and wandered back into the depths of the cave.

Sam sighed tiredly, and eyed the food bag with something akin to envy.

"Can't wait 'til this is all over."

Dean stopped chewing and cast him a guilty glance. "Sorry, dude."

"Wasn't hungry anyhow," said Sam with a small, unconvincing smile.

If anyone noticed Dean's free arm winding round his little brother's shoulder and squeezing gently, nothing was said. Dean's last burger remained untouched despite Sam's protests.

Bobby cleared his throat. "Best we try and get some shuteye," he glanced at the others. "I'll take first watch; you guys rest up."

The men finished the rest of their meal in silence while Patch returned with a small bowl made of purple quartz.

"Here, drink some of this" he placed the bowl against Sam's mouth. "It should ease the pain, take away your hunger and help you sleep."

Aware of Dean's worried gaze, Sam tentatively sipped at the cup, tasting something warm and sweet, like honey and strawberries, and began to drink with more enthusiasm. He felt its effects immediately as a pleasant, relaxing sensation that coated his throat and soothed the throbbing pain in his stomach.

"Wow," he slurred after a third mouthful. "Thasss…tttthhassss…prettttty ddammnn goooo…"

That was all he managed before his eyes slipped closed on a gentle snore, and his head dropped limply to Dean's shoulder.

Dean huffed out a small, relieved laugh. "Sleep tight, little brother."

* * *

Some hours later, with the team fully rested and fed once more, a familiar disagreement was brewing.

"_I'm_ gonna do it."

"Dean…"

"I mean it, Sammy," said Dean, firmly, stopped his pacing and crouched down to Sam's eye level. "You're not gonna be bait for that thing, you understand me?"

Annnnd _out_ came the puppy dog eyes, as predicted.

Bobby rolled his eyes at William, who was checking Sam's stitches again, but both men wisely chose to stay quiet.

"I'm the ideal choice," said Sam, as gently as he could. "I'm injured, slow, can't fight. Hell, it can probably smell my blood! It'll go for the weaker option."

Dean was already shaking his head. "That's why it should be me."

"Dean, c'mon man," Sam insisted. "If it gets too close to you I won't be able to help. But if I'm the bait, I'll have _all_ you guys as back up."

"Sam," Dean clenched his eyes shut in anguish, knowing his brother was right. He bit his lip then opened his eyes again, bright emerald green flashing fiercely by the light of the crystals.

"And besides, the kid will know me instinctively 'cos I gave birth to him…" Sam's jaw snapped shut for a second and he blinked. "Jeez, now _there's_ a sentence I never in a million _years_ thought I'd say!"

"I don't like this, dude," Dean growled, not at all amused.

"If it's any consolation," Sam replied with a wry smile, "neither do I…"

A distant, muffled bang and some weird giggling broke out, echoing round the cavern and bouncing off the walls.

Dean instinctively crouched in front of Sam, shielding him.

"What the fuck was that?"

Sam's eyes darted back and forth, seeking the source of the noise. "I'm thinking it's our boy. He's trying to break through the walls."

"Damn kid must be as strong as The Hulk or something," Dean replied, also warily watching the shadows. Deep rumbling within the crystal walls followed more giggling. "Little shit's playing with us."

Sam grinned, weakly. "Playing with his food, huh? Guess we didn't do such a great job raising him."

Bobby snorted and cautiously backed away from the walls. "Must've learned his table manners from Dean."

"Hey!" Dean protested. "I don't play with my food, I _eat_ my food…" he trailed off while he considered that statement, and gave a little shudder. "Never mind."

Patch appeared by their side and placed a comforting hand on each brother's shoulder.

"He's found us; probably trying to find a way in. But we're all set to take the little bugger down." He eyed the younger Winchester with concern. "Now. Are you sure you're ready for this, Sam m'lad?"

Sam swallowed hard when he realised that they were no longer referring to the poly as an 'it'. But he nodded.

"Ready as I'll ever be."

"Let's get to it then."

Dean slung an arm round Sam's waist, taking some of his little brother's weight.

Patch led the group through the crystal cavern and out into a freshly formed narrow tunnel with a low ceiling. It was extremely low, in fact, and there were no torches here, no crystals, nothing to light their way except Dean's Zippo. With muttered curses and mumbled exclamations each time an elbow or head bumped a wall or ceiling; they made their way carefully along, each with a hand on the shoulder of the man in front and stooped low to avoid knocking themselves out. Poor Sam did his best to keep from crying out; as the tallest of them all, combined with his grievous wounds, he suffered the most, having to stoop his head and shoulders over. Dean kept a firm hold on him, silently offering support in more ways than one.

Ahead, something glimmered in the light of the Zippo and as the men shuffled closer it grew brighter.

Sam smiled tiredly as he entered. "It's beautiful, Patch."

It was an underground room the size of two tennis courts end to end, and it was lined with solid, refined silver. The opening consisted of a stone and silver door that looked like it would take several herds of elephants to move.

William stared around him in amazement. "I've never seen anything like it before in my life. It's amazing!"

Dean nodded in agreement. "Sure is," he said and turned around in a circle, watching the walls reflect the Zippo flame. "Bet there's enough silver in these walls to take down an entire battalion of shifters."

Bobby shifted from foot to foot. "Just so long as we can see what's going on in here at all times. I don't want anyone to let Sam outta their sight for a minute."

"Don't worry, Bobby-boy," said Patch. "I've got that covered."

They all gazed around the silver room in silence, each man reluctant to leave, until Sam spoke up.

"Ok. You guys had better split," he said with a grin, sounding a good deal steadier and more confident than he actually felt, and glanced at the hard, silver floor with a grimace. "This is sure gonna be fun."

Dean was the only one not fooled by his casual demeanour. He squeezed Sam's shoulder, and handed over his favourite weapon.

Sam stared at the silver Taurus.

"For luck, ok? She's always served me well," said Dean. "She'll look after you.

"What about you?" asked Sam, nervously.

"I'm covered." The older brother swept aside his jacket to briefly reveal another gun jammed into the waistband of his jeans,

Sam swallowed around the sudden lump in his throat. "Thanks, Dean," he said, hoarsely, and took the offered weapon.

"I got your back, bro," Dean added, quietly, green eyes soft and serious. "I won't let you down this time, I promise."

"You have _never _let me down," Sam whispered back at him, trusting gaze filled with sincerity. "And I know you won't this time either, dude."

Another bout of maniacal giggling, the kind that sets teeth on edge, echoed around the group, accompanied by more banging and the sound of stone cracking under pressure. Tiny dust eddies circled round their feet, while the ground trembled and shook.

Patch cocked his head to one side. "Shite. He's nearby already."

"Kid learns fast," said Dean, distractedly. "Takes after his parents."

William shuddered. "Think my testicles just rose back up inside me," he whispered, fearfully.

"No more time to waste," Bobby growled, and grabbed Dean by the shoulder. "Let's go." He nodded to Sam. "Remember: we're right here, ok, son? Close by."

Sam gave him a shaky salute. "Yeah, I know."

Dean reluctantly allowed himself to be dragged away from his brother, every instinct screaming at him to stay by Sam's side, but knowing it wouldn't solve anything.

Sam watched the others leave, trying not to show his fear at being left all alone with a lethal polymorphic shifter after his blood.

Though, technically, he wasn't alone. There were a series of hidden observation points on the outside of the room, each connected to the others by a small tunnel. Dean and the guys would be watching closely, but he couldn't help the shudder of apprehension running through him.

There was every chance this plan wasn't going to work but it was all they had. It was based on the shaky assumption that the shifter would go after Sam, given that he was the kid's 'mother' – and Sam sure wasn't living _that_ one down anytime soon - with that special parental bond thing they'd once had, before the birth.

_But there's always the chance he could go after one of the others, _thought Sam, anxiously_._

God only knew what would happen next, but he just had to hope they were all prepared and on their guard.

When the other men were out of sight, Sam carefully leaned against the silver cavern wall and sank down to a crouch, hissing in pain. His fingers closed around the weapon his brother had given him, drawing some comfort from the feel of the stock in his grip. It was loaded with silver, but Bobby had already shot the poly in the head and it had made no difference. Maybe, _hopefully_, this time Sam would just be close enough for a single shot to the heart, because that was all the chance he was going to get. The poly was too strong and too fast. If Sam missed or bungled the first shot, there would be no second attempt. Though he never said it out loud, and especially not in front of his brother, Sam doubted Dean, Bobby, Patch or William would get there in time to stop the shifter from tearing him apart, but at least they could seal up the room, effectively imprisoning the poly in an underground silver cage. He would eventually decline from starvation or the poisonous effects of the silver.

The world would be a slightly safer place. Problem solved.

Perfect.

Apart from, ya know, the hideously painful death that awaited Sam should he fuck it up in the first place, not to mention what it would do to Dean, seeing his kid brother die like that…

_Please God don't let me fuck this up._

Sam could almost feel Dean's nervous gaze on him. Patch had said there were small man-sized faults in the walls, like natural one-way mirrors made of silver glass. The other men were all behind the walls watching and waiting for the poly, weapons also loaded with silver.

Sam offered up a prayer and kept his eyes on the entrance.

* * *

**TBC.**

**Can they pull this off? Will it go according to plan?**

**Or is there an almighty fuck up just waiting in the wings to strike?**

**Leave me some happy thoughts and I'll get back to you soon…**

**Only one more chapter, and then the epilogue!**

**Love and hugs,**

**ST xxx**


	11. Chapter 11

**Born of Ill Intent.**

**Please read warnings from chapter one.**

* * *

**Chapter Eleven.**

It was turning out to be a long wait. The poly had stopped moving some time ago; no more laughter, no banging noises, and apparently no more tunnelling.

Dean suppressed a yawn and shook himself to fully awake. Standing up straight at his hiding post by the gap in the wall, he stretched his back and neck, trying to get comfortable.

Once again, he checked his gun over, flicked the safety on and off a few times.

On the other side of the one way glass, Sam appeared to be undisturbed, sitting against the wall and biding his time. Dean wished like hell he could talk to the kid right now; reassure him that he was safe. The silver mirrors would be a deterrent to the poly, but humans could easily break through during a skirmish and the faults would automatically seal shut behind them.

Once the poly arrived, Dean wasn't going to wait around for Sam to shoot it. He was going to smash through the silver glass and fire on the bastard, and keep on firing until it was dead.

That was if the fucking thing even bothered to show up.

He checked his watch for the thousandth time.

This was getting _stupid_.

Junior was still playing with them, fucking with their heads.

_Little bastard's trying to lure us into a false sense of security…_

"And it's working, ain't it?" Came a young voice, right by Dean's ear.

"Howdy, _Dad_."

Dean froze.

"What?" The voice suddenly dropped the attitude, instead sounding sad and lonely. "Nothing to say to your own son before you kill me, huh?"

Dean turned slowly to face the poly, and felt all the blood drain away from his face.

The kid looked around fourteen, maybe fifteen years old, a few inches shorter than Dean, and beautiful in the way that only the young and precocious can be. He also had Dean's vivid green eyes, a light dusting of freckles over prominent cheekbones, and possessed of Sam's strong, stubborn jawline, which at that moment was tilted in just the same way as when Sam was angry or hurt. His hair was like Sam's, too, chestnut in colour, longish and gently curled round his ears, just brushing the collar of his plaid shirt.

Dean couldn't stop staring. This… _this_ was Sam, and Mary, and John, and a little of himself, all wrapped up in one teenage, poly-nightmare package.

A battle waged in his mind, the hunter and father in him fighting for dominance. His fingers itched to drop the weapon, every protective instinct screamed at him to grab the child and hold him close, keep the world at bay, keep the kid _safe…_

"I never wanted to hurt anyone," the boy suddenly whispered with sincerity that Dean somehow found himself believing. "I just wanted to live. To get to know my parents and go to school…"

Next thing Dean knew, he was pinned to the rocky wall, cold fingers wrapped round his neck, his gun slipping from his hands.

"…all I wanted was my own _name!"_ the poly spat in his face and tightened his grip. "You couldn't even give me _that! _You were gonna let me die without a _name!"_

All Dean could manage was a gurgle of protest, while his oxygen supply was slowly shut off and black dots danced the fandango across his vision. This was most definitely not his finest hour.

Angry eyes bored into Dean's.

"You wouldn't name your own child, you callous son of a bitch," he hissed, tears rolling down his face. "You'd never even met me, and you wanted me dead."

His voice broke on the last word, coming out as more of a sob.

The young poly blinked a few times, confusion, sadness, and fury flitting across his handsome face then, just as suddenly, loosened his grip.

Dean spluttered and choked, furious at himself for letting his guard down.

"Oh you little bastard!" he growled, weakly, and made an aborted attempt to reclaim his gun but the poly kicked it away.

Expecting another attack, Dean braced himself but the young shifter surprised him yet again.

"Why?" the kid begged softly, hand falling completely away from Dean this time. The poly backed away, hands raised in surrender, eyes sad and wet. "Why do you hate me?"

Dean sagged back against the rock wall, still choking and coughing, and tried to get a grip on his emotions. He had to find the strength to do what was right, but the poly – _his son _– was staring back at him, looking so genuinely hurt and betrayed that it began to tear at Dean's heart.

Little wonder there were laws against incestuous relationships, if this was the kind of fucked up shit that came of it. And, Dean had to admit in all fairness, it wasn't the boy's fault. Not by a long shot.

This _sucked._

"Look, kid," said Dean, rubbing his bruised neck and pushing himself back into an upright position. "This is nothing personal, ok? We don't hate you."

"Then why do you want me dead?" the boy asked, voice trembling. "I've done nothing wrong. Why can't you give me a chance?"

This was tricky. Dean hated himself for hurting the kid's feelings, but it had to be done. Child he might be, but he was dangerous. Dean couldn't afford to let the kid get to him anymore than he already had.

"You're a monster," Dean told him, bluntly. He sensed movement from nearby, and guessed that Bobby and the others were closing in. "You came about for all the wrong reasons, and in all the wrong circumstances. A polymorphic shifter raped my brother, Sam, wearing my face and skin, and it nearly killed him." He pointed at the boy. "You were the result."

The kid stared at him with wide, terrified eyes. "B-but…"

"That makes you dangerous," Dean continued, slowly moving towards him, hands raised, palms out. "You've already hurt Sam, practically tore your way out of him."

The kid seemed genuinely shocked, and opened and closed his mouth a few times before he was able to respond.

"I-I didn't mean to. Didn't know what I was doing," the young poly stammered, shaking his head violently. "I just… I'm so messed _up!"_

Dean let him have that one; babies couldn't be held responsible for puking on your shoulder or peeing in your face during a nappy change, so he supposed they equally couldn't be blamed for turning on their parent with murderous intent… however weird _that_ sounded.

The boy suddenly clutched at his head, hands digging into his hair as if in pain, and wailed forlornly. "I don't… can't … what's _wrong_ with me?!"

Dean began to understand. Poor kid was being buffeted by conflicting shifter instincts and human emotions. A consequence his polymorphic parent obviously hadn't considered and wouldn't have cared much about anyhow, being the _love 'em, beat 'em, drown 'em, and leave 'em_ type. And now he had no one to guide him through his shifts or teach him how to properly control them. He was all alone in a world that would never welcome his kind.

Good news was that the youngster had a conscience after all, and it was something Dean could work with.

"It's your basic instincts," said Dean, keeping his voice low and unthreatening. "You can't help it. You're genetically programmed to kill any humans around you once you're born."

The shifter slowly released the bruising grip on his hair and shook his head. "No… that's wrong… it's _all wrong!"_

"Is it?" asked Dean, curiously. "You tried to kill Bobby."

"Only 'cos he was going to kill me," the boy replied, in despair. "I could _see _it in his head…"

"You tried to kill all of us," Dean persisted.

"No… I…"

"You were going to kill _me. _Your own _father._"

Dean's statement came out like a gunshot, sharp and angry, and the shifter fell silent with shame and remorse. It was obvious the youngster was beginning to understand the crux of the problem.

As had been said before, kid sure was a fast learner.

The two of them stood there staring at each other for a long moment, until the young poly spoke up again.

"I'm sorry," he said, softly, voice filled with deep and genuine regret.

Dean sighed. "So am I, kid. Believe me. This ain't something I wanna do."

"I know. And I don't want to hurt anyone else. I don't want to hurt _you_." The boy sniffed and glanced around, looking so young and lost. "What happens now? How do we do this?"

And that was a question and a half. Well, two questions, and neither of them were easy. Silence stretched out between the two of them as they stood there, staring at each other. Sadness, desolation and loneliness rolled off the boy-shifter, almost tangible in the darkness of the tunnels.

Before Dean could finally answer him, Bobby stepped out of the shadows, shotgun raised and aimed straight at the poly's heart. Patch and William stepped out from behind, weapons trained on the kid's back.

The boy gazed helplessly at Dean, eyes filled with fear and resignation. Dean felt his heart crack just a little down the middle, his own eyes growing damp.

"Knew Sam wouldn't be able to do it, and neither would you, Dean," said Bobby, voice gruff with apology. "Sam's idea was a good one, but there was an obvious flaw. Figured this kid," he jerked his chin at the poly, "would avoid the silver room, 'specially after I shot him in the head already. If he couldn't get to Sam, seemed to me like he would head for you instead."

Dean couldn't even raise a single thread of anger at being Sam's substitute without being told, since he was too busy feeling torn in two. He _knew_ what had to be done, Bobby was right, had told the kid himself, but… but…

"No!"

He moved quickly, grabbed and pushed the boy behind him, and backed up against the rocky wall.

William and Patch lowered their weapons immediately, but Bobby kept his raised, cross-hairs fixed over Dean's shoulder, waiting for a glimpse of the shifter.

"Dean," Bobby growled, warningly. "Don't be stupid!"

"I said no!" Dean snapped back. "If anyone's gonna do this, then it'll be me." His voice lowered. "I owe him that much."

He turned when he felt a gentle hand on his shoulder. The poly gazed at him with soulful eyes.

"You don't have to," he told his father. "Just…" he faltered and ducked his head in a manner so reminiscent of Sam that it hurt Dean to look at him. "If I'm going to die, I want to die with a name. Given to me by _my_ _parents_. That's all I ask."

Put so simply and by a mere child, thought Dean, sadly. The odds were stacked against the poor kid right from the beginning.

"John," came a weak voice from the tunnels.

Some scuffling noises followed, and Sam appeared, shouldering his way carefully along the low, rocky walls, Taurus dangling limply from one hand. He'd clearly heard everything, because his face was wracked with pain and grief, and fresh blood trickled from beneath his bandages each step he took.

"How 'bout John?" he croaked again, and stumbled towards Dean, who caught him in a one-armed embrace.

William tutted quietly and muttered something about burst stitches and stubborn fools, but everyone ignored him. Patch merely remained silent and watchful, ready for the slightest hint of trouble.

Dean considered Sam's idea. A part of him was dismayed at the thought of naming a shifter after their father. The boy was a monster. Sure, he clearly wasn't inherently evil like a true shifter and he hadn't actually killed anyone yet, but it was only a matter of time before his poly instincts became too strong to repress.

But then, he figured, maybe for that reason alone it was ok to give him their father's name. So far, the kid was an innocent and deserved something good out of life. Something special given by his human parents to remind him that he wasn't all monster.

"John it is," he said, hoarsely.

The newly named John cocked his head to one side for a moment, then nodded.

"Thank you," he whispered, gratefully.

John stared at Sam and Dean, fresh tears rolling down his cheeks. "I know you won't believe me, but I love you both."

Sam heaved in a sharp breath, feeling amazed and wondrous at the love coursing through him, the bond with his son not severed as theorised by Patch, but stronger than ever.

Dean smiled through his own tears, and felt a glimmer of hope about the whole thing. Maybe there was no need for all this.

Maybe the kid would be ok after all. Maybe…

In one swift move no one could have predicted, John snatched the Taurus out of Sam's weak grip.

"John no!" he cried out.

Both Sam and Dean lunged to stop him but it was too late. John pressed the muzzle to his own chest, just over the heart, and squeezed the trigger.

The young shifter collapsed to the floor, eyes turning silver and blank in an instant, while the loud gunshot echoed round the small group and bounced off the walls with finality.

The silence that followed seemed to last forever.

Everyone stood stock still, paralyzed with shock, the fallen boy at their feet.

It was finally over, Bobby realised with relief, then glanced at the Winchester brothers and changed his mind.

Sam's eyes were wide and damp, utterly stricken with grief. His mouth was hanging open, dragging in raspy, ragged breaths, and his legs were trembling. Only reason he was upright was because Dean had him wrapped up tight in his arms. The older brother was barely hanging on, blinking back tears, his face ashen.

Both boys were a mess. Both boys had seen their _son _kill himself.

Bobby eyed them, worriedly. Given the recent fallout from their father's death, he just knew this wasn't going any place good.

* * *

They gently laid him out in the silver room, sprayed accelerant and salt, and watched him burn. Patch, William and Bobby left in silence, while Sam and Dean stayed until the ashes had grown cold. Not a word was uttered, not even in passing.

Hours later, the Winchester brothers simply turned and walked away from their son, disappearing into the gloom of the underground tunnels. The sound of stone grinding on stone followed their retreating footsteps as the silver room became a burial vault, and sealed itself forever.

The house would take care of John from now on, as it took care of everything else.

When Sam and Dean finally resurfaced in the world above, the house was as good as new, as though nothing had happened. The extensive library of books and journals was intact, the fine wine collection was undisturbed and covered in a layer of dust, and a nice fire roared in the hearth.

It could have been their first day in the mountains all over again.

There was even a pot of stew bubbling away quietly in the kitchen and sending out a wonderful meaty smell that set everyone's gut a rumbling.

Well, everyone's except Sam's. He was exhausted and in too much pain to really care.

Once William checked him over, re-stitched and re-bandaged his stomach, Dean eased Sam down onto his bed and gently tucked him in, somewhat surprised by his little brother's lack of protest.

They had some talking to do, Dean guessed. Besides the grief and sadness, he could almost see the thoughts swimming around Sam's mind, and he didn't like it. The kid was drawing too many parallels with John Junior.

Dean looked round when a hand landed on his shoulder. Patch offered up two glasses of amber liquid.

"Here," he murmured with a gentle smile. "Help you both relax."

Dean eyed the whisky glasses suspiciously. Thanks to a quiet conversation with Bobby, he was now all too familiar with Patch's particular variety of _therapy._

"What's in it? Something to block the memories?"

"Would that be so bad?" Patch chuckled at Dean's face, then became serious for a moment. "No, boyo. That would be doing you both a disservice for it's not only the good stuff in life that's important. But," he winked, "it _will _take the edge off a little."

Dean nodded his thanks, and watched Patch saunter back to the kitchen, where Bobby and William were chatting quietly among themselves.

Sam said nothing, just sipped at his drink.

Dean glanced around the room and up at the walls, not for the first time wishing their father was here, and thought he spied something up in the far reaches of the roof. It had shone and twinkled for a brief moment and then was gone so fast, Dean could almost believe he'd imagined it. He stared hard into the shadows, at the dark shelves disappearing upwards, perhaps into the stars, or eternity…

His brother's rasping cough as the whisky went down the wrong way brought Dean back down from such fanciful thoughts, and he forgot all about it.

"Sammy, you ok dude?" he asked him, softly, once the kid was settled.

Sam nodded but avoided eye contact. "I'm fine," he replied, unconvincingly.

Dean sighed and perched on the edge of the bed.

"Look, I…"

"We don't have to talk about this," said Sam, not unkindly.

"Yes," said Dean, after a moment's thought. "We do…"

"Dean…"

Dean cut off his protest with a growl. "Button it, sasquatch."

Sam sighed and nodded for him to carry on.

Dean stared at his hands, then looked up at his brother again.

"He looked just like us, huh?"

Sam swallowed a lump of grief. "Yeah, he did."

"And smart, too."

"Definitely."

They fell silent for a while, until Dean spoke up again. "I think… I think he was a good person, Sammy. Maybe he had a bad start, and not much of a future, but…" he shook his head, not entirely sure what he was trying to say.

Last thing he wanted to do was bring up the whole 'Yellow Eyes' crap again, especially the stuff about his plans for Sam, and all the other children like him, but figured he didn't have much choice, here.

"Look, Sam, I'm just gonna say this the once," he said, forcefully, nostrils flaring a little. "He had no choice, ok? He took the bullet because he knew there was no other way; he knew his shifter instincts were stronger than his human ones, and that made him too dangerous. But you're _different_. You so much as even _think_ about taking the same way out, and I'll..."

"We know from Yellow Eyes that I'm _not_ so different," Sam said urgently, and grasped Dean's shoulder. "We just don't know _how_. I could be just as dangerous…"

"No!" Dean hissed back at him. "You're fully human. You have a choice in this, John didn't."

Sam shook his head, sadly, too tired to fight. "Somehow, I don't think that's what it's gonna come down to," he murmured.

Patch nodded when he overheard that. It almost mirrored his earlier words to Bobby.

Choice wasn't the issue. Whatever the yellow eyed demon had in mind, it wasn't going to be as simple as saying no and walking away.

Every hunter knew it like a mantra. Demons like to screw with your head and, if necessary, they would screw with everyone else around you to get what they want.

But that was something for another day.

Sam and Dean talked well into the night. They talked about their father, their son, the sacrifices both had made for them. They spoke of their differences, their strengths, and all the things that made them who they were.

After a while, Bobby, William and Patch drifted towards them one by one, and the discussion continued. The following day, no one was quite sure what conclusions they'd drawn from it all, but seeing how the brothers had relaxed a little and even smiled a few times, Bobby figured they'd accomplished something good.

Besides a hangover, of course.

Between them all, they'd made quite a dent in Patch's single malt collection, but not once did Dean recall what he'd seen on the distant shelves that previous night.

But Patch remembered. After all, that sort of thing was his job.

* * *

**TBC.**

**What did Dean see up in the roof?**

**What does Patch know about it?**

**Final chapter/epilogue coming soon.**

**Many thanks for all your wonderful support so far.**

**Love and hugs,**

**ST xxx**


	12. Chapter 12

**Born of Ill Intent.**

**Please read warnings from chapter one.**

* * *

**Chapter Twelve and Epilogue.**

"So, you going back to the hospital after all this?" Bobby enquired one afternoon.

They were sitting at the breakfast bar, nursing a bottle of bourbon between them, much to Patch's disgust.

_(That stuff'll rot ya feckin' innards, you mark my words!)_

Through the kitchen window, they could spy Dean chopping wood, while Sam watched on from the veranda with a blanket round his shoulders, occasionally commenting or laughing at something his brother said.

William stared at them for a long minute, and then shrugged. "For a little while, maybe… don't know."

Bobby nodded his understanding. "Don't even think it."

"What?" William asked, all too innocently.

"You're not cut out to be a hunter," said Bobby, firmly. "You're a doctor. A healer. Take my advice, and make good and sure you stay that way. 'Sides. You're too damn old to be getting your ass kicked by evil on a daily basis." Then he stopped and considered his own words for a second. "_I'm _too damn old, but at least I'm _used _to it."

William scowled at the 'old' comment but let it go, and sighed. "You're probably right. I'm not all that big a fan of pant-crapping for the rest of my life, if you catch my meaning."

He took a swig from the bottle, "But." And another. "Not sure I can go back to the way things were before all…" he gestured round the house with his free hand. "…_this."_

Patch sat down on the other side of the doctor, his own _better class_ of liquid nourishment in hand.

"There's always a job going here for a medical genius," he intoned with a raised eyebrow. "Me and the house here can only do so much with injured hunters. You saved Sam's life. That makes you a genius."

"Ha!" William snorted, goodnaturedly. "I stitched him up. Hardly a genius."

"I'd say playing midwife to a _man_ is pretty much genius," replied Bobby. "Not too many doctors or even hunters can claim _that _on their portfolio."

William nodded slowly, then glanced over at Patch. "You serious, man?"

Patch grinned. "I'm always serious. Except for when I'm not."

"I'll think about it," the doctor told him, but his eyes gleamed with excitement.

* * *

Patch climbed up the final rungs of the ladder and cast his gaze about.

"I know you're here somewhere," he crooned, softly. "Dean saw you."

He was answered by a tiny cough and a flurry of dust drifted downwards.

"Come on," he said, in a sing-song voice. "You really are the most stubborn book-sprite I've ever met… ah! There you are, m'sweet!"

A small ball of blue light winked on right next to him, floating and bobbing in mid-air. Patch smiled, indulgently.

"That's my girl. Now," he said, mock-stern, eyebrows drawn down. "You want to show me what you've been up to this time?"

The ball of light chittered softly, and bounced up and down with apparent excitement.

Patch listened, head cocked to the side in amazement. "Have you now!? That's very sweet of you, my honey. The boys _will _be pleased. Now. Let's have a look, shall we?"

The glowing ball nudged at the ladder and pushed it gently over to the right, the wooden wheels squeaking quietly far below, reminding the Irishman just how long he'd been climbing. In fact, if Patch leaned back a little, he could still just about see the corner of Sam's bed reflecting the firelight.

A variety of faint snores and wheezes made their way up through the stacks to Patch's ears, like a badly played opera. He snorted softly. Dean was no doubt still slouched by the fireplace where Patch had left him more than an hour ago, whereas Sam, Bobby and William had actually made it to bed this time.

The ball of light moved upwards, bypassing hundreds of old and dusty books, and Patch followed, until it stopped by a particular journal high up in the darkest recesses of the roof.

It wasn't dusty, but bound in brown leather, worn and faded, and apparently stuffed with cuttings and photographs.

Patch smiled when he opened it and saw the initials on the inside of the cover.

* * *

Several weeks later, Sam was fully recovered and bearing only a few thin scars across the gut from his ordeal, and it was time to leave.

Bobby had a salvage yard to return to.

William had a pissed hospital director to appease and explain why one of their best doctors had disappeared for the last month or so with no word. He had accepted Patch's offer but, man of principle William was, had insisted on working his notice or at least until the hospital found a suitable replacement.

And, finally, Patch had a consignment of holy water and silver RPG shells to deliver to some hunters up in Alaska. Apparently, Big Foot _didn't_ live with the Hendersons and he sure as hell wasn't so nice – the trail of torn and mangled bodies across the icy tundra was the first clue. They were taken rather by surprise, Patch explained, because lore suggested they were dealing with an Abominable Snowman or Yeti, not Big Foot on vacation. This thing stood out against the snow like a sore thumb, and no one could take it down. The RPGs were a last resort, given the avalanche danger, but there was always the hope that if worst came to worst, Big Foot would be buried alive.

The brothers planned to head back with Bobby and pick up the Impala from the yard. After that, they had no real place to be until another hunt came along.

Sam sat on the porch swing, staring off into the distance, while the wind picked up and whirled a gentle flurry of snow round his feet.

"We'll be fine, Sammy," Dean sat down beside him.

"I guess," came the doleful answer.

Dean studied his brother from the corner of his eye, then slung an arm around the kid's shoulders. "It'll be ok. We'll write our own journal or something."

Sam risked a half smile. "Yeah. But it won't be the same."

Dean followed his brother's gaze, but said nothing. Sam was right.

Over twenty years of blood, sweat, heartache and chilling terror had gone into that journal, the Winchester Hunting Bible. Now it was gone, leaving the brothers bereft of its guidance and, most tragic of all, their father's voice. For neither of them could ever read that journal without hearing it.

Nothing would ever be the same again.

And somewhere out there, the yellow eyed demon was waiting for them, biding his time before making his next move. Maybe the demon-killing colt was trained on them right at that very moment, the brothers caught unwittingly in its cross-hairs.

Dean inwardly shuddered, blew on his hands and rubbed them together to warm them up.

Winter looked here to stay, in more ways than one, and it would be a long time before he felt fully warm again…

A long shadow fell over him, blocking out the veranda light and derailing his dark train of thought. Sam swung his head round, startled.

"Sorry to disturb you both, but I believe this belongs to you boys," said Patch, softly, and shoved a small parcel wrapped in brown paper and string under their noses.

He watched the brothers stare at each other, guessing the dilemma, but letting them decide among themselves.

Finally, Dean nodded, grasped the package and held it out to Sam, who hesitated before untying the string, and removing the paper.

"How… when…" Dean nearly choked on his own tongue.

"But," Sam blinked back tears. "But Dean threw it in the lake," he said, voice shaky. "I _saw_ him throw it. I _saw _it go in."

"H-he's right," Dean stammered a little, then took the book in both hands and thumbed through the pages. "There's no way you could have gotten it back, especially in such good condition. I mean, there's no water damage or anything!"

"Good condition!" exclaimed Sam, wide eyed and stunned. "It's _exactly_ the same as before it went in the lake." He glanced up at Patch. "How's that even possible?"

"What can I say? The house likes you," the Irishman smiled, mysteriously.

Dean stared at him. "What are you, exactly?" he asked, in wonder. "Are you even human?"

"Oh, I'm human alright," said Patch, nodding slowly. "Just with a few… _extra curricular skills, _you might say."

"What does that even mean?" Sam asked, frowning. "You're a witch of some kind?"

"Nope."

"Then what?"

"Now, that would be telling." Patch grinned, tapped his nose, and went back inside the house without another word.

Obviously, the guy didn't plan on sharing with the rest of the class any time soon.

The boys were speechless for quite a while, glancing through the journal, smoothing out creases, and gazing at old and faded photographs.

"This is unbelievable," whispered Sam, gently stroking a finger down a page filled with his father's handwriting. "I mean, losing his journal was like… well, like losing _him_. All over again, ya know? And now it's back." He glanced up at his brother with soft, moist eyes. "You ok, Dean?"

Dean sucked on his bottom lip, jaw clenched tight and nodded just once. "Yeah, I'm ok, just…" he rubbed a trembling hand down his face and blinked rapidly. "Yeah."

He pulled himself together, clamped a hand down on Sam's shoulder and offered up a watery smile.

"I don't s'pose Patch'll ever tell us how, huh?" he said, with false joviality.

"Doubt it," Sam replied, vaguely. He returned his gaze to the journal to stared at it in wonder and sadness.

"It's great, Sam," Dean told his brother after a pause. "But it doesn't change a thing. I'd throw it right back in that damn lake all over again if I had to."

Sam sniffed, reached up and patted the hand on his shoulder. "I know, man. I know."

They sat there in silence a little while longer until Sam spoke up again.

"Thanks, Dean. For everything…"

"_Duuude!_" Apparently bored or, perhaps, fed up with the emo fest, Dean broke the moment by rolling his eyes and grinning. "I'm used to saving damsels in distress. S'no big deal."

Sam reached out and slapped the back of Dean's head. "It's called 'modesty', Jerk!"

"Ungrateful bitch!" Dean groused, but slipped his arm fully around Sam's shoulders to administer a quick, affectionate squeeze.

They sat there until twilight fell behind and the night fell properly into place. Relaxed, if a touch bewildered, they continued talking quietly and watching a fresh layer of snow settling on the treetops. They had a long journey in the morning, but for now the forest was theirs and the night was still young.

Patch watched them from the kitchen window, while Bobby stood by, silently drying a plate.

The brothers had bounced back well, but there would always be scars.

Those scars were making them stronger.

"Ah, Johnny, ya stubborn little bastard," the Irishman whispered, sadly. "If only you could see your boys now…"

**The End.**

* * *

**That's all folks! **

**Now how about one last round of massive, wonderful, sexy reviews for your ol'mate Skags?**

**Love and hugs,**

**ST xxx**


End file.
